n  c 
YC 


* 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


_ 


MAEIE  BASHKIETSEFP. 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


THE  JOURNAL   OF  A    YOUNG  ARTIST 


1860-1884 


TRANSLATED  BY 

MARY  J.  SERRANO 

AUTHOR   OF    "  DESTINY   AND   OTHER    POEMS," 
TRANSLATOR  OF   "DRAGON'S  TEETH,"    "  PEPITA  XIMENEZ,"   ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


CASSELL   &  COMPANY,  LIMITED 

104-106  FOURTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT, 

1889, 
By  O.  M.  DUNHAM. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Press  of  W.  L.   Mershon  &•  C« 
Rahway,  N  .  J. 


Art  Library 


JOSEPHINE  LAZARUS 


THIS  TRANSLATION    IS   DEDICATED,    IN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT   OF   HER   APPRECIATION 

OF  THE   AUTHOR   OF  THIS  JOURNAL,    AND    HER   GENEROUS   CRITICISM 

OF  THE    WORK    OF  THE  TRANSLATOR. 


TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE. 


HERE  is  the  record  of  an  extraordinary  life — '  a  book 
without  a  parallel,"  as  Gladstone  has  called  it.  In  these 
pages,  science,  art,  literature,  social  questions,  love,  are 
treated  with  all  the  cynicism  of  a  Machiavelli  and  the  naivete 
of  an  ardent  and  enthusiastic  girl.  On  a  background  solemn 
and  somber  as  the  steppes  of  her  native  land  are  traced 
pictures  that  reflect  the  vivid  hues,  the  luminous  atmosphere, 
the  life,  the  movement,  the  variety,  of  France,  Spain,  Italy. 
With  a  nature  that  was  profoundly  religious,  and  a  spirit 
that  was  essentially  skeptical,  with  ambition  to  conquer  the 
universe,  and  a  heart  that  yearned  with  a  passionate  longing 
for  affection,  demanding  all  things  for  herself,  yet  capable 
of  the  most  utter  self-abnegation.  "  hoping  all  things,"  and 
fearing  all  things  alternately,  clinging  to  life  with  an  eager- 
ness that  is  pathetic  in  its  intensity,  wishing  for  death  with 
an  eagerness  no  less  pathetic,  regarding  herself  by  turns  as 
the  superior  of  kings,  and  as  less  than  the  least  of  created 
beings,  Marie  Bashkirtseff  has  left  us  as  her  contribution  to 
the  literature  of  humanity  these  confessions,  which  no  one 
who  has  a  mind  to  think  or  a  heart  to  feel  can  read  un- 
moved. Certain  portions  of  the  Journal,  which  in  its 
entirety  might  seem  diffuse  to  American  readers,  have  been 
omitted  in  the  translation. 

M.  J.  S. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


OF  what  use  were  pretense  or  affectation  ?  Yes,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  I  have  the  desire,  if  not  the  hope,  of  living  upon  this 
earth  by  any  means  in  my  power.  If  I  do  not  die  young  I  hope 
to  live  as  a  great  artist;  but  if  I  die  young,  I  intend  to  have  my 
journal,  which  cannot  fail  to  be  interesting,  published.  Per- 
haps this  idea  of  publication  has  already  detracted  from,  if  not 
destroyed,  the  chief  merit  that  such  a  work  may  be  said  to 
possess  ?  But,  no  !  for  in  the  first  place  I  had  written  for  a 
long  time  without  any  thought  of  being  read,  and  then  it  is  pre- 
cisely because  I  hope  to  be  read  that  I  am  altogether  sincere. 
If  this  book  is  not  the  exact,  the  absolute,  the  strict  truth,  it 
has  no  raison  d'etre.  Not  only  do  I  always  write  what  I 
think,  but  I  have  not  even  dreamed,  for  a  single  instant,  of 
disguising  anything  that  was  to  my  disadvantage,  or  that 
might  make  me  appear  ridiculous.  Besides,  I  think  myself 
too  admirable  for  censure.  You  may  be  very  certain,  then, 
charitable  readers,  that  I  exhibit  myself  in  these  pages  just 
as  I  am.  As  a  subject  of  interest  for  you  /may  appear  to 
you  of  little  consequence  ;  but  forget  that  it  is  /_,•  think 
simply  that  a  fellow-being  is  recounting  to  you  her  impres- 
sions from  her  infancy.  Such  a  document  is  very  interest- 
ing from  a  human  standpoint.  Ask  M.  Zola  if  this  be  not  so, 
or  even  M.  de  Goncourt,  or  Maupassant  himself  !  My  jour- 
nal commences  at  my  twelfth  year,  but  begins  to  possess  some 
value  only  from  after  my  fifteenth  or  sixteenth  year.  There 
is  in  it,  therefore,  a  blank  to  be  filled  up  ;  so  that  I  shall 

iii 


IV  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

write  a  sort  of  preface  in  order  to  render  this  monument  of 
human  and  literary  interest  intelligible. 

Assume,  then,  that  I  am  of  noble  birth,  and  let  us  begin  : 

I  was  born  on  the  nth  of  November,  1860.  Only  to 
write  it  down  is  frightful.  But  then  I  console  myself  by 
thinking  that  I  shall  be  of  no  age  at  all  when  you  read  my 
journal. 

My  father  was  the  son  of  General  Paul  Gregorievitch 
Bashkirtseff,  a  provincial  nobleman  who  was  of  a  brave, 
obstinate,  severe,  and  even  ferocious  nature.  My  grand- 
father was  raised  to  the  grade  of  General  after  the  Crimean 
war,  I  think.  He  married  a  young  girl — the  adopted  daugh- 
ter of  a  grand  seigneur;  she  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight, 
leaving  five  children — my  father  and  four  daughters. 

Mamma  was  married  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  after  having 
rejected  several  very  good  partis.  She  was  a  Babanine. 
On  the  side  of  the  Babanines  we  belong  to  an  old  noble 
family  of  the  provinces  ;  and  grandpapa  has  always  boasted 
of  being  of  Tartar  origin  (his  ancestors  having  come  to 
Russia  at  the  time  of  the  first  invasion).  Baba  Nina  are 
two  Tartar  words — for  my  part  I  laugh  at  all  this.  Grand- 
papa was  the  contemporary  of  Lermontoff,  Poushkine,  etc. 
He  was  an  admirer  of  Byron,  a  poet,  a  soldier,  and  a  man 
of  letters.  He  married,  while  quite  young,  Mademoiselle 
Julie  Cornelius,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  very  sweet  and  very  pretty. 
They  had  nine  children — if  you  will  pardon  the  smallness 
of  the  number ! 

After  two  years  of  marriage  mamma  went,  with  her  two 
children,  to  live  with  her  parents.  I  was  always  with  grand- 
mamma, who  idolized  me.  Besides  grandmama  to  adore 
me,  there  was  my  aunt,  when  mamma  did  not  carry  her  off 
with  her — my  aunt,  who  was  younger  than  mamma,  but  not 
so  pretty  ;  who  sacrificed  herself  to  and  was  sacrificed  by 
everybody. 

In  May,  1870,  we  set  out  to  travel.     The  dream  so  long 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  V 

cherished  by  mamma  was  realized.  We  remained  a  month 
in  Vienna,  making  ourselves  dizzy  with  novelties  of  every 
description — fine  shops,  theaters,  etc.  We  arrived  at  Baden- 
Baden  in  June,  at  the  height  of  the  season,  and  found  our- 
selves in  the  midst  of  a  luxury  truly  Parisian.  Our  party 
consisted  of  grandpapa,  mamma,  my  aunt  Romanoff,  Dina 
(my  cousin-german)  my  brother  Paul,  and  myself;  and  we 
had  with  us  a  doctor,  the  angelic,  the  incomparable  Walit- 
sky.  He  was  a  Pole,  but  without  any  exaggerated  patriot- 
ism, of  a  sweet  nature,  and  very  winning  manners.  He 
spent  all  his  income  on  his  profession.  At  Achtirka  he  was 
the  physician  of  the  district.  He  attended  the  University 
with  mamma's  brother,  and  was  always  treated  as  one  of  the 
family  at  our  house.  At  the  time  of  our  setting  out  on  our 
travels  a  physician  was  needed  for  grandpapa,  and  for  that 
reason  we  took  Walitsky  with  us.  It  was  at  Baden  that  I 
first  became  acquainted  with  the  world,  and  with  the  re- 
finements of  polite  society,  and  that  I  suffered  the  tortures 
of  vanity. 

But  I  have  not  said  enough  about  Russia,  and  about  my- 
self, which  is  the  principal  thing.  I  had  two  governesses, 
one  a  Russian,  the  other  a  French  woman.  The  former, 
whom  I  remember  very  well,  was  a  certain  Madame  Melni- 
koff,  a  woman  of  elegant  manners,  well  educated,  romantic, 
and  who  was  separated  from  her  husband.  She  became  a 
governess  on  a  sudden  impulse,  after  reading  a  great  many 
romances.  She  was  regarded  by  the  family  as  a  friend,  and 
treated  by  them  as  an  equal.  All  the  men  paid  court  to 
her,  and  one  fine  morning,  after  a  certain  romantic  adven- 
ture, she  disappeared.  She  might  have  bade  us  good-by  and 
gone  away  quite  naturally,  but  the  Slav  nature,  with  French 
civilization  grafted  on  to  it  and  influenced  by  romantic 
reading,  is  a  curious  compound.  In  her  character  of  un- 
happy wife  this  lady  had  at  once  set  herself  to  adore  the 
little  girl  confided  to  her  care.  I  had  returned  her  adora- 


VI  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

tion  through  an  instinctive  feeling  of  dramatic  fitness,  and 
my  family, poseuse  and  simple-minded,  thought  her  departure 
ought  to  make  me  ill  ;  they  all  regarded  me  with  compas- 
sionate looks  that  day,  and  I  remember  that  grandmamma 
ordered  a  certain  soup — a  soup  for  invalids — to  be  made 
expressly  for  me.  I  felt  myself  grow  quite  pale  before  this 
exhibition  of  sensibility.  I  was,  indeed,  sickly  looking, 
fragile,  and  not  at  all  pretty — all  which  did  not  prevent 
every  one's  regarding  me  as  a  being  destined  to  become 
one  day  beautiful,  brilliant,  and  magnificent.  Mamma  once 
went  to  a  Jew  who  told  fortunes. 

"  You  have  two  children,"  he  said  to  her  ;  "  your  son  will 
be  like  everybody  else,  but  your  daughter  will  be  a  star  !  " 

One  evening  at  the  theater  a  gentleman  said  to  me, 
laughingly  : 

"  Show  me  your  hand,  mademoiselle.  Ah,  by  the  style 
in  which  you  are  gloved,  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  but 
that  you  will  one  day  be  a  terrible  coquette." 

I  was  for  a  long  time  very  proud  of  this.  Since  I  have 
been  able  to  think,  since  I  was  three  years  old  (I  was  not 
weaned  until  I  was  three  and  a  half),  I  have  always  had 
aspirations  toward  greatness  of  some  kind.  My  dolls  were 
always  kings  or  queens  ;  all  my  thoughts,  everything  I  heard 
from  those  who  surrounded  mamma,  always  bore  some  refer- 
ence to  this  greatness  which  must  one  day  inevitably  come 
to  me. 

When  I  was  about  five  years  old  I  dressed  myself  one 
day  in  mamma's  laces,  put  flowers  in  my  hair,  and  went  to 
the  drawing-room,  to  dance.  I  was  the  great  danseuse. 
Petipa,  and  all  the  household  were  there  to  look  at  me. 
Paul  was  nobody  beside  me,  and  Dina,  although  the  daughter 
of  the  dearly  beloved  Georges,  did  not  put  me  in  the  shade. 
One  more  incident :  When  Dina  was  born,  grandmamma 
took  her  from  her  mother,  and  kept  her  from  that  time  forth 
with  herself.  This  was  before  I  was  born. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  Vll 

After  Mme.  Melnikoff  I  had  for  a  governess  Mdlle. 
Sophie  Dolgikoff,  a  girl  of  sixteen — blessed  Russia  ! — and 
another,  a  Frenchwoman  called  Mme.  Brenne,  who  wore 
her  hair  in  the  style  of  the  Restoration,  had  pale  blue  eyes, 
and  was  a  sorrowful  looking  creature  with  her  fifty  years, 
and  her  consumption.  I  was  very  fond  of  her.  She  taught 
me  how  to  draw.  I  drew  a  little  church  under  her  instruc- 
tions. I  drew  at  other  times  also.  While  the  grown-up 
people  played  cards  I  would  often  draw  on  the  green  cloth. 

All  this  brings  us  back  to  Baden  in  1870.  War  having 
been  declared,  we  had  betaken  ourselves  to  Geneva,  I  with 
my  heart  filled  with  bitterness,  and  cherishing  projects  of 
revenge.  Every  evening  on  going  to  bed  I  recited  in  my 
own  mind  the  following  supplementary  prayer  : 

"  My  God,  grant  that  I  may  never  have  the  small-pox  ; 
that  I  may  grow  up  pretty  ;  that  I  may  have  a  beautiful 
voice  ;  that  I  may  be  happily  married  ;  and  that  mamma 
may  live  for  a  long  time  to  come  ! 

At  Geneva  we  put  up  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Couronne  on  the 
borders  of  the  lake.  There  I  had  a  professor  of  drawing 
who  brought  designs  with  him  for  me  to  copy — little  chalets 
in  which  the  windows  were  like  trunks  of  trees,  and  did  not 
at  all  resemble  the  windows  of  real  chalets,  so  I  refused  to 
draw  them.  The  good  man  then  told  me  to  copy  them 
from  nature,  just  as  they  appeared  to  me.  Just  then  we 
left  the  hotel  to  live  in  a  family  boarding-house,  with  Mont 
Blanc  in  front  of  us.  I  therefore  copied  scrupulously  all 
that  was  visible  of  Geneva  and  the  lake. 

When  I  am  dead,  my  life,  which  appears  to  me  a  remark- 
able one,  will  be  read.  (The  only  thing  wanting  is  that  it 
should  have  been  different.)  But  I  detest  prefaces  (they 
have  kept  me  from  reading  a  great  many  excellent  books), 
as  well  as  the  notices  of  editors.  For  this  reason  I  write  my 
own  preface.  It  might  have  been  omitted  if  I  had  pub- 
lished the  whole  of  my  journal,  but  I  limited  myself  to  be- 


Vl.ll  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

ginning  at  my  twelfth  year ;  to  give  what  precedes  would 
render  the  book  too  long.  Besides,  I  give  you  glimpses 
enough  into  it  in  the  course  of  the  journal.  I  go  back  to 
the  past  very  often,  apropos  of  anything  or  nothing. 

What  if,  seized  without  warning  by  a  fatal  illness,  I  should 
happen  to  die  suddenly  !  I  should  not  know,  perhaps,  of 
my  danger  ;  my  family  would  hide  it  from  me  ;  and  after 
my  death  they  would  rummage  among  my  papers  ;  they 
would  find  my  journal,  and  destroy  it  after  having  read  it, 
and  soon  nothing  would  be  left  of  me — nothing — nothing — 
nothing  !  This  is  the  thought  that  has  always  terrified  me. 
To  live,  to  have  so  much  ambition,  to  suffer,  to  weep,  to 
struggle,  and  in  the  end  to  be  forgotten  ; — as  if  I  had  never 
existed.  If  I  should  not  live  long  enough  to  become 
famous,  this  journal  will  be  interesting  to  the  psychologist. 
The  record  of  a  woman's  life,  written  down  day  by  day, 
without  any  attempt  at  concealment,  as  if  no  one  in  the 
world  were  ever  to  read  it,  yet  with  the  purpose  of  being 
read,  is  always  interesting  ;  for  I  am  certain  that  I  shall  be 
found  sympathetic,  and  I  write  down  everything,  every- 
thing, everything.  Otherwise  why  should  I  write?  Be- 
sides, it  will  very  soon  be  seen  that  I  have  concealed 
nothing. 

PARIS,  May  i,  1884. 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF: 

THE  JOURNAL    OF  A     YOUNG   ARTIST. 


I873- 

VILLA  ACQUA-VIVA,  ) 

PROMENADE  DBS  ANGLAIS,  NICE.  1" 

January  (at  the  age  of  twelve  years). — Aunt  Sophie  is 
playing  some  of  the  national  airs  of  Little  Russia  on  the 
piano,  and  this  recalls  our  country  to  me.  I  am  transported 
in  fancy,  and  what  recollections  can  I  have  of  that  life 
that  are  not  associated  with  poor  grandmamma  ?  The  tears 
are  coming  to  my  eyes  ;  they  are  there  now,  and  in  another 
instant  they  will  fall ;  they  are  falling  already.  Poor  grand- 
mamma !  How  unfortunate  I  am  to  have  you  no  longer 
beside  me  !  How  tenderly  you  loved  me,  and  I  you  !  But 
I  was  too  young  to  love  you  as  you  deserved  to  be  loved  ! 
I  am  deeply  moved  by  these  memories.  The  memory  of 
grandmamma  is  a  respected,  a  sacred,  a  beloved  one,  but  it 
is  not  a  living  one.  O  my  God  !  grant  me  happiness  in  this 
life,  and  I  will  be  grateful!  But  what  am  I  saying?  It 
appears  to  me  that  I  have  been  placed  in  this  world  in 
order  to  be  happy  ;  make  me  happy,  O  my  God  ! 

Aunt  Sophie  is  still  playing.  The  sounds  of  the  piano 
reach  me  at  intervals,  and  penetrate  my  soul.  I  have  no 
lessons  to  learn  for  to-morrow,  for  it  is  Aunt  Sophie's  fete- 
day.  God  grant  that  the  Duke  of  H may  be  mine  ! 

I  will  love  him  and  make  him  happy  !     I  will  be  happy  too. 


2  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

I  will  do  good  to  the  poor.  It  is  a  sin  to  think  that  one 
can  purchase  the  favor  of  God  by  good  works,  but  I  know 
not  how  otherwise  to  express  myself. 

I  love  the  Duke  of  H ,  but  I  cannot  tell  him  that  I 

love  him  ;  and  even  if  I  were  to  tell  him  so,  he  would  pay 
no  attention  to  it.  When  he  was  here  I  had  some  object  in 
going  out,  in  dressing  myself,  but  now  ! —  I  used  to  go  to 
the  terrace  in  the  hope  of  seeing  him  for  even  a  single 
instant,  at  a  distance.  My  God,  assuage  my  grief  !  I  can 
pray  no  more;  hear  my  prayer.  Thy  grace  is  infinite;  Thy 
mercy  great !  Thou  hast  granted  me  so  many  blessings  ! 
It  grieves  me  to  see  him  no  longer  on  the  promenade.  His 
face  was  easily  distinguishable  among  the  vulgar  faces  of 
Nice. 

Mrs.  Howard  invited  us  yesterday  to  spend  the  day  with 
her  children.  We  were  on  the  point  of  setting  out,  when 
she  returned  to  say  that  she.  had  asked  mamma's  permission 
to  keep  us  till  evening.  We  remained,  and  after  dinner  we 
all  went  to  the  great  drawing-room,  which  was  dark,  and 
the  girls  begged  me  so  much  to  sing  ;  they  went  on  their 
knees  to  me — the  children  as  well ;  we  laughed  a  great 
deal ;  I  sang  "  Santa  Lucia,"  "  The  Sun  is  Risen,"  and 
some  roulades.  They  were  so  delighted  that  they  all  em- 
braced me  frantically.  If  I  could  produce  the  same  effect 
upon  the  public  I  would  go  on  the  stage  this  very  day. 

It  causes  so  profound  an  emotion  to  be  admired  for 
something  more  than  one's  dress  !  Truly,  I  am  transported 
by  these  words  of  praise  from  children.  What  would  it  be, 
then,  if  I  were  admired  by  others  ? 

I  was  made  for  triumphs  and  emotions  ;  the  best  thing  I 
can  do,  therefore,  is  to  become  a  singer.  If  the  good  God 
would  Q\~\\Y  preserve,  strengthen,  and  develop  my  voice,  then  I 
should  enjoy  the  triumph  for  which  I  long.  Then  I  should 
enjoy  the  happiness  of  being  celebrated,  and  admired  ;  and 
in  that  way  the  one  I  love  might  be  mine.  If  I  remain  as  I 


1&73-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  3 

am,  I  have  but  little  hope  of  his  loving  me  ;  he  is  ignorant 
even  of  my  existence.  But  when  he  sees  me  surrounded  by 
glory,  in  the  midst  of  triumphs  !  Men  are  so  ambitious  ! 
And  I  shall  be  received  in  society,  for  I  shall  not  be  a 
celebrity  out  of  a  tobacco-shop  or  a  filthy  street.  I  am  of 
noble  birth  ;  I  have  no  need  to  make  use  of  my  talents — my 
fortune  does  not  exact  it — so  that  I  shall  have  all  the  greater 
glory  for  elevating  myself,  and  it  will  be  all  the  easier  for 
me  to  do  so.  In  that  way  my  life  would  be  perfect.  I 
dream  of  glory,  of  fame,  of  being  known  throughout  the 
world! 

To  see  thousands  of  persons,  when  you  appear  upon  the 
stage,  await  with  beating  hearts  the  moment  when  you  sl^pll 
begin  to  sing  ;  to  know  as  you  look  at  them  that  a  single 
note  of  your  voice  will  bring  them  all  to  your  feet ;  to  look 
at  them  with  a  haughty  glance  (for  I  can  do  anything) — that 
is  my  dream,  that  is  my  life,  that  is  my  happiness,  that  is 
my  desire.  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  Monsignor  le 

Due  de  H will  come  with  the  others  to  throw  himself 

at  my  feet,  but  he  shall  not  meet  with  the  same  reception  as 
the  others.  Dear,  you  will  be  dazzled  by  my  splendor,  and 
you  will  love  me !  You  will  behold  me  in  all  my  glory,  it  is 
true — you  deserve  for  a  wife  only  such  a  woman  as  I  hope 
to  become.  I  am  not  ugly  ;  I  am  even  pretty — yes,  rather 
pretty  than  ugly.  I  am  extremely  well-formed,  with  all  the 
perfection  of  a  statue;  I  have  tolerably  fine  hair;  I  have  a 
coquettish  manner  that  is  very  becoming,  and  I  know  how  to 
conduct  myself  toward  men. 

I  am  a  modest  girl,  and  I  would  never  give  a  kiss  to  any 
other  man  than  my  husband  ;  I  can  boast  of  something  that  not 
every  girl  of  twelve  or  fourteen  years  can  say,  that  is,  of  never 
having  been  kissed,  and  of  never  having  kissed  anyone.  Then, 
to  see  a  young  girl  at  the  highest  point  of  glory  to  which  a 
woman  can  attain,  who  has  loved  him  from  her  childhood 
with  a  constant  love,  simple  and  modest — all  this  will  aston- 


4  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

ish  him  ;  he  will  want  to  marry  me  at  any  cost,  and  he  will 
do  so  through  pride.  But  what  do  I  say  ?  Why  should  I 
not  admit  that  he  may  love  me  ?  Ah,  yes,  with  the  help  of 
God  ;  God  has  made  me  discover  the  means  by  which  I 
may  possess  him  I  love.  I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God,  I  thank 
Thee! 

Friday,  March  14. — This  morning  I  heard  a  noise  of  car- 
riages in  the  Rue  de  France  ;  I  looked  out  and  saw  the  Duke 

of  H driving  with  four  horses  on  the  Promenade.  Ah, 

if  he  is  here,  he  will  take  part  in  the  pigeon-shooting  match 
in  April  ;  I  will  be  there  at  any  cost ! 

To-day  I  saw  the  Duke  of  H again.  No  one  bears 

fcimself  as  he  does;  he  has  the  air  of  a  king  when  he  is 
driving  in  his  carriage. 

I  shall  be  happy  with  my  husband,  for  I  will  not  neglect 
myself  ;  I  will  adorn  myself  to  please  him,  as' I  adorned  my- 
self when  I  wished  to  please  him  for  the  first  time.  Besides, 
I  cannot  understand  how  a  man  and  a  woman  can  love  each 
other  tenderly,  and  endeavor  to  please  each  other  unceas- 
ingly, and  then  neglect  themselves  after  marriage.  Why 
believe  that  with  the  word  marriage  love  must  pass  away, 
and  that  only  cold  and  reserved  friendship  remains  ;  why 
profane  marriage  by  representing  the  wife  in  curl-papers  and 
a  wrapper,  with  cold-cream  on  her  nose,  trying  to  get  money 
from  her  husband  for  dresses  ;  why  should  a  woman  be 
careless  of  her  appearance  before  the  man  for  whom  she 
should  adorn  herself  the  most  ?  I  do  not  see  why  one  should 
treat  one's  husband  like  a  domestic  animal,  and  yet  so  long 
as  one  is  not  married,  why  one  should  wish  to  please  this 
man.  Why  not  always  retain  something  of  coquetry  with 
one's  husband,  and  treat  him  as  a  stranger  whom  one  desires 
to  please  ?  Is  it  because  one  need  not  conceal  one's  love, 
because  it  is  not  a  crime  to  love,  and  because  marriage  has 
received  God's  benediction  ?  Is  it  because  that  which  is 


IS73-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  5 

not  forbidden  possesses  no  value  in  our  eyes,  and  that  one 
can  find  pleasure  only  in  secret  and  forbidden  things  ?  This 
ought  not  to  be. 

I  have  strained  my  voice  in  singing  and  injured  it,  so  that 
I  have  made  a  promise  to  God  to  sing  no  more  (a  resolution 
that  I  have  since  broken  a  hundred  times)  until  I  take 
lessons  ;  I  have  prayed  to  Him  in  the  mean  time  to  purify, 
strengthen  and  develop  it.  And  in  order  that  I  may  not  be 
tempted  to  break  my  vow,  I  have  even  besought  Him  to 
take  it  from  me,  should  I  do  so.  This  is  frightful,  but  I 
will  do  all  I  can  to  keep  my  vow. 

Friday,  December  30. — To-day  I  have  on  an  antediluvian 
dress,  my  little  petticoat  and  black  velvet  coat,  over  it  the 
tunic  and  sleeveless  jacket  of  Dina,  and  it  all  looks  very 
well.  I  think  it  is  because  I  know  how  to  wear  the  dress, 
and  carry  myself  well.  (I  looked  like  a  little  old  woman.) 
I  was  very  much  noticed.  I  should  like  to  know  why  they 
all  look  at  me,  and  whether  it  is  because  I  appear  ridiculous, 
or  because  I  am  pretty.  I  would  reward  well  any  one  who 
would  tell  me  the  truth.  I  have  a  mind  to  ask  some  one 
(some  young  man)  if  I  am  pretty.  I  always  like  to  believe 
things  that  are  good,  and  I  should  prefer  to  believe  that  it 
is  because  I  am  pretty.  Perhaps  I  deceive  myself,  but  if  it 
be  a  delusion  I  would  rather  keep  it,  because  it  is  a  flatter- 
ing one.  What  would  you  have  ?  In  this  world  it  is  neces- 
sary to  look  at  things  in  their  best  possible  light.  Life  is  so 
beautiful  and  so  short  ! 

I  have  been  thinking  of  what  my  brother  Paul  will  do 
when  he  is  a  man.  What  profession  will  he  choose  ?  For 
he  cannot  spend  his  life  as  so  many  people  spend  theirs — 
first  saunter  idly  about,  and  then  throw  himself  into  the 
world  of  gamblers  and  cocottcs ;  no  !  Besides,  he  has  not 
the  means  of  doing  this.  I  write  sensible  letters  to  him 
every  Sunday — not  sermons,  no  !  but  letters  such  as  a  com- 


0  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

rade  might  write  him.  Well,  I  shall  know  what  to  do,  and, 
with  God's  help,  I  shall  exert  some  influence  over  him,  for 
he  must  be  a  man. 

I  was  so  preoccupied  that  I  had  almost  forgotten  (what  a 
shame  !)  the  absence  of  the  Duke  !  It  seems  as  if  so  great 
a  gulf  separate  us,  especially  if  we  go  to  Russia  in  the 
summer.  They  are  talking  seriously  of  that.  How  can  I 
imagine  that  he  should  ever  be  mine  ?  He  no  more  thinks 
of  me  than  he  does  of  last  year's  snow.  I  do  not  exist  for 
him.  If  we  remain  in  Nice  for  the  winter,  I  may  still  hope  ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  with  our  departure  for  Russia  all 
my  hopes  will  vanish  ;  everything  that  I  had  thought  possi- 
ble is  disappearing  from  my  gaze.  I  am  passing  through  a 
period  of  supreme  anguish — a  change  in  my  whole  nature  is 
taking  place.  How  strange  it  is  ! 

1  am  overwhelmed  by  my  thoughts.  O  my  God,  at  the 
thought  that  he  will  never  love  me  I  am  ready  to  die  of 
grief  !  I  have  no  longer  any  hope.  I  was  mad-  to  desire 
things  so  impossible.  I  wished  to  possess  what  was  too 
beautiful.  Ah,  but  no  !  I  must  not  allow  myself  to  be  thus 
carried  away.  What !  I  dare  despair  thus  !  Is  there  not 
a  God  to  whom  all  things  are  possible,  who  protects  me  ? 
What !  I  dare  entertain  these  thoughts  ?  Is  He  not  every- 
where always,  watching  over  us?  He  can  do  all  things; 
He  is  all-powerful  ;  for  Him  there  is  neither  time  nor  space. 

1  may  be  in  Peru,  and  the  Duke  in  Africa,  and  if  He  wishes 
He  can  bring  us  together.     How  can  I  have  entertained  for 
a  single  moment  a  despairing  thought  ?     How  can  I  have 
forgotten  for  an  instant  His  divine  goodness  ?     Is  it  because 
He  does  not  give  me  everything  that  I  desire  at  once  that  I 
dare  to  deny  Him?     No,  no,  He  is  more  merciful  ;  He  will 
not  allow  a  soul  as  innocent  as  mine  to  be  torn  apart  by 
these  sinful  doubts. 

This  morning  I  pointed  out  a  coal-vender  to  Mile. 
Colignon  (my  governess)  saying  :  "See  how  much  that  man 


1873-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  ^ 

resembles  the  Duke  of  H ."  She  replied,  smiling  : 

"  What  nonsense!  "  It  gave  me  an  indescribable  pleasure  to 
pronounce  his  name.  But  I  notice  that  if  we  never  speak  of 
the  man  we  love,  our  love  grows  stronger ;  but  if  we  speak 
continually  of  him,  our  love  diminishes.  It  is  like  a  vial  of 
some  essence  ;  if  it  be  corked,  the  perfume  remains  strong, 
while  if  it  be  open,  the  perfume  evaporates.  This  is  pre- 
cisely the  case  with  my  love  ;  it  remains  strong  because  I 
never  hear  him  I  love  spoken  of.  I  never  speak  of  him,  I 
keep  him  entirely  for  myself. 

I  am  very  sad.  I  have  no  positive  ideas  regarding  my 
future  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  know  what  I  would  like  to  have, 
but  not  what  I  shall  have.  How  gay  I  was  last  winter  ! 
Everything  smiled  on  me  ;  I  had  hope.  I  love  a  shadow 
which  perhaps  I  shall  never  possess.  I  am  in  despair  about 
my  gowns  ;  they  have  cost  me  many  tears.  I  went  with  my 
aunt  to  two  dressmakers  ;  but  they  were  both  unsatisfactory. 
I  shall  write  to  Paris  ;  I  cannot  bear  the  gowns  here. 

This  evening  we  spent  at  church  ;  it  is  the  first  day  of 
our  Holy  Week,  and  I  performed  my  devotions.  I  must 
say  that  there  are  many  things  about  our  religion  which  I 
do  not  like  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to  reform  them  ;  I  believe 
in  God,  in  Christ,  and  in  the  Holy  Virgin.  I  pray  to  God 
every  night,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  trouble  myself  about  a 
few  trifles  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  true  religion — with 
true  faith.  I  believe  in  God,  and  He  is  good  to  me  ;  He 
gives  me  more  than  I  need.  Oh,  if  He  would  only  give  me 
what  I  desire  so  much  !  The  good  God  will  have  pity  on 
me,  although  I  might  do  without  what  I  ask.  I  should  be 
so  happy  if  the  Duke  would  only  take  notice  of  me,  and  I 
would  bless  God. 

I  must  write  his  name,  for  if  I  neither  mentioned  it  to 
any  one  nor  even  wrote  it  down  here  I  could  no  longer 
live.  ...  It  is  some  slight  consolation  only  to  write  it. 
On  the  Promenade  I  saw  with  joy  a  carriage  containing  a 


S  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAStiKlRTSEFF.          [1873. 

young  man,*  tall,  slender,  and  dark.  I  thought  I  recog- 
nized some  one.  I  gave  a  cry  of  surprise  :  "  Oh,  caro — !" 
They  asked  me  what  was  the  matter  ;  I  answered  that  Mile. 
Colignon  had  stepped  on  my  foot.  He  resembles  his  brother 
in  nothing.  Nevertheless,  it  makes  me  happy  to  see  him. 
Ah,  if  I  could  only  make  his  acquaintance,  at  least  ;  for 
through  him  I  might  come  to  know  the  Duke  !  I  love  this 
one  as  if  he  were  my  brother  ;  1  love  him  because  he  is  his 

brother.     At  dinner  Walitsky  said  suddenly,  "  H ."     I 

blushed  ;  I  was  confused,  and  I  walked  toward  the  cup- 
board. Mamma  reproved  me  for  this,  saying  that  it  was 
very  wrong.  I  think  she  divines  something,  because  every 

time  any  one  mentions  the  name  H I  blush  or  leave  the 

room  abruptly.     She  does  not  scold  me  for  it,  however. 

They  are  all  sitting  in  the  dining-room,  chatting  together 
quietly,  and  thinking  me  occupied  with  my  studies.  They 
are  ignorant  of  what  is  passing  within  me,  and  they  do  not 
know  what  my  thoughts  are  now.  I  must  be  either  the 

Duchess  of  H ,  and  that  is  what  I  most  desire  (for  God 

knows  how  ardently  I  love  him),  or  become  famous  on  the 
stage  ;  but  this  career  does  not  attract  me  so  much  as  the 
other.  It  is  doubtless  flattering  to  receive  the  homage  of 
the  entire  world,  from  the  lowest  to  the  sovereigns  of  the 
earth,  but  the  other ! — Yes,  I  will  have  him  I  love  ;  that  is 
altogether  another  kind  of  happiness,  and  I  prefer  it.  A 
great  lady — a  duchess — I  would  rather  be  this  in  society, 
than  be  the  first  among  the  celebrities  of  the  world,  for  that 
would  not  be  my  world. 

May  6. — Mamma  is  up,  and  Mile.  C also,  for  she  has 

been  ill.  It  was  so  delightful  after  the  rain  !  so  fresh,  and 
the  trees  looked  so  beautiful  with  the  sun  shining  on  them, 
that  I  could  not  study.  I  went  into  the  garden  and  placed 
my  chair  beside  the  fountain,  and  had  before  me  a  magnifi- 

*  The  Duke's  brother. 


1373-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  9 

cent  picture,  for  this  fountain  is  surrounded  by  large  trees, 
that  completely  shut  out  the  prospect.  All  that  is  to  be 
seen  is  a  brook,  and  rocks  covered  with  moss,  and  on  every 
side  trees  of  different  kinds,  their  foliage  lighted  up  by  the 
sun.  And  the  soft,  green  turf  !  Truly  I  was  tempted  to  roll 
on  it.  All  this  made  a  sort  of  grove,  so  fresh,  so  soft,  so  green, 
so  beautiful  that  I  should  try  in  vain  to  give  you  an  idea  of 
it  ;  I  cannot.  If  the  villa  and  the  garden  do  not  change,  I 
will  bring  him  here  to  show  him  the  spot  where  I  have  so 
often  thought  of  him.  Yesterday  evening  I  prayed  to  God, 
and  when  I  came  to  the  part  where  1  asked  that  I  might 
know  the  Duke,  that  God  would  grant  me  this  happiness,  I 
shed  tears.  Three  times  already  has  God  listened  to  me, 
and  granted  my  prayer  :  the  first  time  I  asked  Him  for  a  set 
of  croquet,  and  my  aunt  brought  me  one  from  Geneva  ; 
the  second  time  I  asked  Him  to  help  me  to  learn  English. 
I  prayed  and  wept  so  much,  and  my  imagination  was  so 
excited,  that  I  thought  I  beheld  an  image  of  the  Virgin  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  who  promised  what  I  asked  for.  I 
could  even  recognize  the  face,  if  I  should  see  it  again. 

I  don't  want  any  one  to  think  that,  when  I  have  done  witli 
studying,  I  shall  do  nothing  but  dance  and  dress  myself  ; 
no,  having  finished  the  studies  of  childhood,  I  shall  devote 
myself  seriously  to  painting,  music,  and  singing.  I  have 
talent  for  all  this,  and  a  great  deal  of  it !  What  a  consola- 
tion it  is  to  write  this  !  I  am  already  calmer.  Not  only 
do  the  annoyances  I  suffer  injure  my  health,  but  they  injure 
my  disposition  and  my  appearance.  This  flush  that  over- 
spreads my  face  makes  my  cheeks  burn  as  with  fire,  and 
when  calmness  returns  they  are  no  longer  either  fresh  or 
rosy.  This  color  which  I  am  condemned  to  have  always  in 
my  face  will  make  me  pale  and  faded,  and  that  is  Mile. 

C 's  fault,  for  the  agitation   she  causes  me  produces  it. 

I  even  have  slight  headaches  after  my  face  has  burned 
like  this.  Mamma  scolds  me;  she  says  it  is  my  fault 


10  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSRFF.          [1873. 

that  I  do  not  speak  English.  How  indignant  that  makes 
me ! 

I  think,  if  he  should  ever  read  this  journal,  that  he  will 
find  it  stupid, — above  all,  my  confessions  of  love.  I  have 
repeated  them  so  often  that  they  have  lost  all  their  force. 
Ah,  when  one  thinks  what  a  miserable  creature  man  is  ! 
Every  other  animal  can,  at  his  will,  wear  on  his  face  the 
expression  he  pleases.  He  is  not  obliged  to  smile  if  he 
has  a  mind  to  weep.  When  he  does  not  wish  to  see  his 
fellows  he  does  not  see  them.  While  man  is  the  slave  of 
everything  and  everybody  !  And  yet  I  draw  this  very  fate 
upon  myself.  I  love  to  visit,  and  I  love  to  see  visitors. 

Last  night  I  had  a  horrible  dream.  We  were  in  a  house 
that  I  had  never  seen  before,  when  suddenly  I,  or  some  one, 
I  do  not  remember  who,  looked  out  of  the  window.  The 
sun  had  increased  in  size  until  it  covered  almost  half  of  the 
sky,  but  it  did  not  shine,  and  it  gave  forth  no  heat.  Then 
it  separated  into  parts,  and  a  quarter  of  it  disappeared  ;  the 
remainder  separated  again  into  parts,  changing  color  as  it 
did  so,  and  casting  a  glow  all  around  ;  then  a  cloud  over- 
spread one  half  of  the  sun,  and  everybody  cried  out, 
"  The  sun  has  stopped  moving."  It  remained  for  some 
moments  immovable,  but  pallid  ;  then  something  strange 
happened  to  the  earth  ;  it  was  not  that  it  trembled  ;  I  can- 
not describe  what  it  was.  There  are  no  words  to  express 
what  we  do  not  comprehend.  Then  the  sun  began  to  move 
again,  like  two  wheels,  one  within  the  other ;  that  is  to  say, 
that  part  of  the  sun  which  remained  shining  was  covered 
at  intervals  by  a  cloud  round  like  itself.  Every  one  was 
troubled.  Mamma  was  not  with  us  ;  she  came  afterward 
in  a  kind  of  omnibus,  and  seemed  to  be  not  at  all  frightened. 
Everything  was  strange  ;  this  omnibus  was  not  like  other 
omnibuses.  Then  I  began  to  examine  my  dresses  ;  we 
were  packing  our  things  into  a  little  trunk.  But  at  that 
instant  everything  began  over  again.  "  It  is  the  end  of  the 


i 873.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  H 

world,"  I  thought,  and  I  asked  myself  how  it  was  that  God 
had  not  warned  me  of  it,  and  how  it  was  that  I  was  thought 
worthy  to  be  present  in  the  flesh,  on  this  day.  Every  one 
was  afraid,  and  we  got  into  the  vehicle  with  mamma,  and 
returned,  I  know  not  where. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  dream  ?  Is  it  sent  by  God 
to  forewarn  me  of  some  great  event  ?  or  is  it  simply  the 
result  of  nervousness  ? 

Mile.  C goes  away  to-morrow.     All  the  same  it  is  a 

little  sad.  It  is  painful  to  part  from  even  a  dog  with  which 
one  has  lived.  It  matters  not  whether  the  existing  relations 
were  pleasant  or  not,  I  have  a  worm  gnawing  at  my  heart. 

Time  passes  swift  as  an  arrow.  In  the  morning  I  study  a 
little — the  piano  for  two  hours.  The  Apollo  Belvidere  which 
I  am  going  to  copy  bears  some  slight  resemblance  to  the 
Duke.  In  the  expression,  especially,  the  likeness  is  very 
strong — the  same  manner  of  carrying  the  head,  and  the 
same  shaped  nose. 

Manote,  my  music  teacher,  was  very  much  pleased  with 
me  this  morning.  I  played  a  passage  in  Mendelssohn's  con- 
certo in  G-minor  without  a  single  mistake.  Then  we  went 
to  the  Russian  church — the  Church  of  the  Trinity.  The 
whole  church  was  decorated  with  flowers  and  plants. 
Prayers  were  offered  up,  in  which  the  priest  asked  pardon 
for  sins,  mentioning  each  one  separately.  Then  he  knelt 
down  and  prayed  again.  Everything  he  said  was  so  appli- 
cable to  me  that  I  remained  motionless,  listening  to  and 
echoing  his  prayer.  This  is  the  second  time  that  I  have 
prayed  with  so  much  fervor  in  church.  The  first  time  was 
on  New  Year's  Day.  The  service  has  become  so  hackneyed, 
and  then  the  things  spoken  of  are  not  those  of  everyday 
life — things  that  concern  every  one.  I  go  to  mass,  but  I  do 
not  pray.  The  prayers  and  the  hymns  they  sing  find  no 
response  either  in  my  heart  or  in  my  soul.  They  prevent 
me  from  praying  with  freedom,  while  the  Te  Deu/ii,  in 


12  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

which  the  priest  prays  for  every  one  (where  every  one  finds 
something  applicable  to  himself)  penetrates  my  soul. 

Paris — At  last  I  have  found  what  I  longed  for  without 
knowing  what  it  was  !  Life,  that  is  Paris  !  Paris,  that  is 
life !  I  tormented  myself  because  I  did  not  know  what  I 
desired  ;  now  I  see  before  me — I  know — what  I  desire.  To 
go  from  Nice  to  Paris  ;  to  have  an  apartment,  to  furnish 
it ;  to  have  horses,  as  we  have  at  Nice  ;  to  have  the  entree 
to  society  through  the  medium  of  the  Russian  Ambassador — 
this,  this  is  what  I  desire.  How  happy  it  makes  one  to  know 
what  one  desires  !  But  there  is  one  thought  that  tortures 
me — it  is,  that  I  am  ugly  !  This  is  horrible ! 

Nice — I  regard  Nice  as  an  exile.  I  must,  before  every- 
thing, make  an  order  of  exercises  for  each  day,  including  the 
hours  of  my  different  professors.  On  Monday  I  begin 
again  my  studies,  which  were  cut  so  diabolically  short  by 
Mile.  Colignon.  With  the  winter  people  will  come  to  the 
city,  and  with  people,  gayety.  It  will  then  be  no  longer 
Nice,  but  a  little  Paris.  And  the  races  !  Nice  has  its  good 
side.  All  the  same,  the  six  or  seven  months  we  are  to 
spend  here  seem  to  me  like  a  sea  that  is  to  be  crossed 
without  once  removing  my  eyes  from  the  beacon  that  guides 
me.  I  do  not  hope  to  stand  upon  its  shore,  I  only  hope  to 
see  land,  and  the  sight  of  it  alone  will  endow  me  with 
force  of  character,  and  give  me  strength  to  endure  life  until 
next  year.  And  then  ?  And  then  !  Upon  my  word  I 
know  nothing  about  it,  but  I  hope.  I  believe  in  God  and  in 
His  divine  goodness — that  is  why  I  do  not  lose  courage. 

"  He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High 
shall  abide  in  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty.  He  shall  cover 
thee  with  his  feathers,  and  under  his  wings  shalt  thou  trust ; 
his  truth  shall  be  thy  shield  and  buckler.  Thou  shalt  not 
be  afraid  for  the  terror  by  night ;  nor  for  the  arrow  that 
flieth  by  day."  I  cannot  express  what  I  feel,  nor  my  grati- 
tude to  God  for  his  goodness  toward  me. 


1873.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BA&HKIRTSEFF.  13 

June  9. — I  have  begun  to  study  drawing.  I  feel  tired, 
weak,  unable  to  work.  The  summers  in  Nice  are  killing 
me  ;  no  one  is  here  ;  I  am  ready  to  cry  ;  in  a  word,  I  am 
unhappy.  We  live  only  once.  To  spend  a  summer  at  Nice 
is  to  lose  half  one's  life.  I  am  crying  now,  a  tear  has  fallen 
on  the  paper.  Oh,  if  mamma  and  the  others  knew  what  it 
costs  me  to  remain  here,  they  would  not  keep  me  in  this 
FRIGHTFUL  desert  !  Nothing  diverts  my  thoughts  from 
//////.  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  heard  his  name  mentioned. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  he  were  dead.  And  then,  I  am  envel- 
oped in  darkness  ;  the  past  I  can  scarcely  recall,  the  present 
is  hideous  ;  I  am  completely  changed  ;  my  voice  is  hoarse  ; 
I  have  grown  ugly  ;  formerly  on  awaking  in  the  morning  I 
was  fresh  and  rosy.  But  what  is  it  that  tortures  me  thus  ? 
What  has  happened  to  me  ?  -What  is  going  to  happen  ? 

We  have  hired  the  Villa  Bacchi.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  is 
very  distressing  to  have  to  live  there  ;  for  the  bourgeois  it  is 
well  enough,  but  for  us  !  As  for  me  I  am  an  aristocrat  ;  I 
prefer  a  ruined  gentleman  to  a  rich  bourgeois.  I  find  a 
greater  charm  in  old  satin,  or  in  the  gilding,  blackened  by 
time,  of  old-fashioned  columns  and  ornaments,  than  in  rich 
and  tasteless  furniture  that  obtrudes  itself  upon  the  eye.  A 
true  gentleman  will  not  base  his  pride  on  having  shining 
boots  and  well-fitting  gloves.  Not  that  one  should  be  care- 
less as  to  one's  appearance,  no  ;  but  between  the  careless- 
ness of  the  nobleman  and  the  carelessness  of  the  plebeian 
there  is  such  a  difference  ! 

We  are  going  to  leave  this  lodging,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it ; 
not  because  it  is  convenient  or  handsome,  but  because  it  is 
like  an  old  friend,  and  I  am  accustomed  to  it.  When  I 
think  that  I  shall  never  again  see  my  beloved  study  !  I 
have  thought  so  often  of  him  here  !  This  table  on  which  I 
am  leaning,  and  on  which  I  have  written  day  by  day  all 
that  was  sweetest  and  most  sacred  in  my  soul  ;  those  walls 
over  which  my  glances  wander,  seeking  to  pierce  them  and 


14  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

fly  far,  far  away  !  In  each  flower  of  the  wall-paper  I  be- 
hold him  !  How  many  scenes  have  I  pictured  to  myself  in 
this  study,  in  each  of  which  he  played  the  principal  role  ! 
It  seems  to  me  there  is  not  a  single  thing  in  the  world  of 
which  I  have  not  thought  in  this  little  room,  from  the  sim- 
plest to  the  most  fantastic. 

In  the  evening  Paul,  Dina,  and  I  remained  for  a  while 
together ;  then  they  left  me  alone.  The  moon  shone  into 
my  chamber,  and  I  did  not  light  the  candles.  I  went  out 
on  the  terrace,  and  listened  to  the  distant  sounds  of  a  vio- 
lin, guitar,  and  flute.  I  returned  quickly  to  my  room  and 
sat  down  by  the  window  in  order  to  listen  more  at  my  ease. 
It  was  a  charming  trio.  It  is  long  since  I  have  listened  to 
music  with  so  much  pleasure.  In  a  concert  one's  attention 
is  engaged  more  by  the  audience  than  by  the  music,  but 
this  evening,  seated  all  alone  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  I 
devoured,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  this  serenade,  for 
such  it  was,  given  us  by  the  young  men  of  Nice.  They 
could  not  be  more  gallant.  Unfortunately  the  fashionable 
young  men  do  not  like  these  amusements  ;  they  prefer  to 
spend  their  time  in  the  cafe's  chantants,  but  as  for  music — 
What  can  be  nobler  than  to  take  part  in  a  serenade,  as  in 
Spain  in  olden  times  !.  Upon  my  word,  after  riding,  I 
should  choose  to  spend  my  time  under  my  mistress's  win- 
dow, and  afterward  at  her  feet. 

I  should  so  much  like  to  have  a  horse  !  Mamma  has 
promised  that  I  shall  have  one,  and  my  aunt  also.  This 
evening,  in  mamma's  room,  I  asked  her  to  give  me  one,  in 
my  airy,  enthusiastic  way,  and  she  promised  it  to  me  seri- 
ously. I  shall  go  to  bed  quite  happy  to-night.  Every  one 
tells  me  I  am  pretty,  but  in  truth,  in  my  own  mind  I  don't 
think  so.  My  pen  refuses  to  write  the  word  ;  I  am  grace- 
ful only — and  occasionally  pretty.  How  happy  I  am  ! 

I  am  to  have  a  horse  !  Did  any  one  ever  see  a  little  girl 
like  me  with  a  race-horse  ?  I  shall  make  a  furore.  What 


1873  ]         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  15 

colors  shall  my  jockey  wear  ?  Gray  and  parti-colored  ? 
No,  green  and  pale  rose.  A  horse,  for  me  !  How  happy  I 
am  !  What  a  creature  I  am  !  Why  not  give  something 
from  my  overflowing  cup  to  the  poor,  who  have  nothing  ? 
Mamma  gives  me  money ;  I  will  give  half  of  it  to  the 
poor. 

I  have  altered  the  arrangement  of  my  room ;  it  is  prettier 
without  the  table  in  the  middle.  I  have  put  in  it  several 
trifles — an  inkstand,  a  pen,  and  two  old  traveling  candle- 
sticks which  had  lain  hidden  away  for  a  long  time  in  the 
box  in  which  things  out  of  use  are  kept.  The  world,  that  is 
my  life  ;  it  calls  me,  it  waits  for  me,  I  long  to  run  to  meet 
it,  but  I  am  not  old  enough  yet  to  go  into  society.  But  I 
long  to  be  old  enough,  not  for  the  sake  of  marrying,  but 
because  I  want  to  see  mamma  and  my  aunt  shake  off  their 
laziness.  Not  the  world  of  Nice,  but  the  world  of  St. 
Petersburg,  of  London,  of  Paris ;  there  it  is  that  I  could 
breathe  freely,  for  the  constraints  of  society  are  freedom 
for  me. 

Paul  has  no  taste,  as  yet ;  he  understands  nothing  about 
woman's  beauty.  I  have  heard  him  say  :  "  Beauties,  such 
ugly  creatures  as  those  !  "  I  must  form  his  manners  and 
his  tastes.  So  far,  indeed,  I  do  not  exercise  a  great  deal  of 
influence  over  him,  but  I  hope  to  do  so  in  time.  For  the 
present,  I  try  to  communicate  my  own  views  of  things  to 
him,  but  without  his  suspecting  it;  I  convey  sentiments  of 
the  severest  morality  to  him  under  a  frivolous  guise. 

Tuesday,  July  29. — Here  we  are  on  our  way  to  Vienna  ; 
our  departure  was,  on  the  whole,  a  cheerful  one.  I  was,  as 
usual,  the  soul  of  the  party. 

September  2. — The  drawing-master  has  come  ;  I  gave  him 
a  list  of  subjects  I  wished  to  study,  the  other  day,  that  he 
might  send  me  some  professors  from  the  Lyceum.  At  last 


16  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

I  shall  set  to  work  !  On  Mile.  Colignon's  account  I  have 
lost  four  months,  which  is  monstrous.  Binsa  went  to  the 
censor,  who  asked  him  for  a  day's  time.  Seeing  my  note 
he  inquired,  "  How  old  is  the  young  girl  who  wants  to 
study  all  this  ;  and  who  makes  out  such  a  programme  for 
herself  ?  "  The  stupid  Binsa  answered,  "  Fifteen  years 
old."  I  scolded  him  severely  for  doing  so;  I  was  furious, 
enraged.  Why  should  he  say  I  am  fifteen  ?  It  is  not  true. 
He  excused  himself  by  saying  that,  judging  from  my  rea- 
soning powers,  I  was  twenty ;  that  he  thought  he  did  very 
well  in  saying  that  I  was  only  two  years  older  than  I  am, 
etc.  I  exacted  from  him  to-day  at  dinner  a  promise  that  he 
should  tell  the  censor  how  old  I  am  ;  1  exacted  it. 

Friday,  September  19. — I  try  to  be  cheerful  under  all  cir- 
cumstances ;  one  ought  not  to  sadden  one's-self  by  griev- 
ing. Life  is  so  short,  one  should  laugh  while  one  can. 
Tears  will  come  of  themselves,  those  at  least  we  can  avoid, 
but  there  are  sorrows  which  we  cannot  escape,  such  as  death 
and  absence ;  yet  even  this  last  has  its  charms,  so  long  as 
one  has  the  hope  of  being  reunited  to  the  absent  one.  But 
to  spoil  one's  life  with  petty  worries  is  a  shame.  I  pay  no 
heed  to  such  trifles  ;  I  have  a  horror  of  trivial,  every-day 
annoyances,  so  I  let  them  pass  with  a  smile. 

Monday,  October  13. — I  was  looking  up  my  lesson  to-day 
when  little  Heder,  my  English  governess,  said  to  me : 
"  Do  you  know  that  the  Duke  is  going  to  marry  the 

Duchess  M ?"     I  put  the  book  closer  to  my  face,  for  I 

was  as  red  as  fire.  I  felt  as  if  a  sharp  knife  had  pierced  my 
heart.  I  began  to  tremble  so  violently  that  I  could 
scarcely  hold  the  volume.  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  to 
faint,  but  the  book  saved  me.  I  pretended  to  be  looking 
for  the  place  for  a  few  moments,  until  I  grew  calmer.  I 
said  my  lesson  in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  emotion.  I 


I873-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  I? 

summoned  all  my  courage — as  I  had  done  on  a  former 
occasion,  when  I  wished  to  throw  myself  over  the  bridge — 
and  told  myself  that  I  must  control  myself.  I  wrote  a  dic- 
tation so  as  not  to  have  to  speak.  I  was  rejoiced  when  I 
went  to  the  piano  ;  I  tried  to  play,  but  my  fingers  were  cold 
and  stiff.  The  Princess  came  to  ask  me  to  teach  her  to 
play  croquet.  "  With  pleasure,"  I  responded  gayly  ;  but  my 
voice  still  trembled.  I  ran  to  dress  myself.  In  a  green 
gown — my  hair  is  the  color  of  gold,  and  my  complexion 
white  and  red — I  looked  as  pretty  as  an  angel  or  a  woman. 
I  kept  thinking  continually,  "  He  is  going  to  marry  !  Can 
it  be  possible  ?  How  unhappy  I  am  !  " — not  unhappy,  as 
formerly,  on  account  of  the  paper  of  one  room,  or  the  fur- 
niture of  another,  but  really  unhappy  ! 

Fdid  not  know  how  to  tell  the  Princess  that  he  was  going 
to  be  married  (for  they  will  all  know  it  some  day),  and  it  is 
better  I  should  tell  it  myself.  I  chose  a  moment  when  she 
was  seated  in  an  arm-chair  ;  the  light  was  behind  me  so 
that  she  could  not  see  my  face.  "  Do  you  know  the  news, 
Princess  ?  "  I  said  (we  spoke  in  Russian),  "  the  Duke  of 

H is  going  to  be  married."  At  last  !  I  had  said  the 

words.  I  did  not  grow  red  ;  I  was  calm  ;  but  what  passed 
within  me,  in  the  depths  of  my  soul,  no  one  shall  ever 
know  ! 

We  went  out  for  a  walk,  but  Nice  is  no  longer  Nice. 
The  only  thing  that  bound  me  to  Nice  was  he.  I  detest 
Nice  !  I  can  scarcely  endure  the  thought  of  remaining  here. 
I  am  weary  !  ah,  how  weary  I  am  ! 

My  God,  save  me  from  despair  !  My  God,  pardon  me 
my  sins  ;  do  not  punish  me  for  them  !  All  is  ended  ! — 
ended  ! 

To-day  I  am  happy  ;  I  am  gay  at  the  thought  that  per- 
haps it  is  not  true,  for  the  terrible  news  has  not  been  con- 
firmed, and  I  prefer  ignorance  to  the  certainty  of  the  crush- 
ins;  truth. 


l8  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

Friday,  October  17. — I  was  playing  on  the  piano  when  the 
newspapers  were  brought  in.  I  took  up  Galignani's  Messen- 
ger, and  the  first  words  on  which  my  eyes  fell  related  to  the 

marriage  of  the  Duke  of  H .     The  paper  did  not  fall 

from  my  hands  ;  on  the  contrary  it  remained  tight  in  my 
grasp.  I  had  not  the  strength  to  stand  ;  I  sat  down  and  re- 
read the  blighting  lines  a  dozen  times  over  to  assure  myself 
that  I  was  not  dreaming.  O  Divine  charity !  what  have  I 
read  !  My  God,  what  have  I  read  !  I  could  not  write 
in  the  evening,  I  threw  myself  on  my  knees  and  wept. 
Mamma  came  into  the  room,  and  in  order  that  she  might 
not  see  me  in  this  state  I  pretended  I  was  going  to  inquire 
if  tea  was  ready.  And  I  have  to  take  a  Latin  lesson  !  Oh, 
torture  !  Oh,  anguish  !  I  can  do  nothing,  I  cannot  remain 
quiet.  There  are  no  words  to  express  what  I  feel ;  but 
what  makes  me  desperate,  what  enrages  me,  what  kills  me, 
is  jealousy — jealousy  and  envy  ;  they  rend  my  soul  apatt, 
they  make  me  furious,  mad  !  If  I  could  only  let  my  feelings 
be  seen !  But  I  must  hide  them  and  seem  calm,  and  that 
makes  me  all  the  more  miserable. 

I  shall  learn  to  forget  in  time,  no  doubt.  To  say  that  my 
grief  will  be  eternal  would  be, ridiculous — nothing  is  eternal. 
But  the  fact  is  that,  for  the  present,  I  can  think  of  nothing 
else.  He  does  not  marry  ;  they  marry  him.  It  is  all  owing 
to  the  machinations  of  his  mother.  (1880. — All  this  on  ac- 
count of  a  man  whom  I  had  seen  a  dozen  times  in  the  street, — r 
whom  I  did  not  kncnu,  and  who  did  not  know  that  I  was  in 
existence?)  Oh,  I  detest  him  !  I  want  to  see  them  to- 
gether. They  are  at  Baden-Baden  that  I  loved  so  much  ! 
Those  walks  where  I  used  to  see  him,  those  kiosks,  those 
shops  ! 

(All  this  re-read  in  1 880  produces  no  effect  on  me  whatever?) 

To-day  1  will  alter  in  my  prayer  all  that  relates  to  him. 

I  will  no  longer  pray  to  God  that  I  may  become  his  wife  ! 

To  give  up  this  prayer  seems  to  me  impossible,  killing  !     I 


i8?3-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  19 

shed  tears  like  a  fool !     Come,  come,  my  child,  let  us  be 
reasonable. 

It  is  ended  !  yes,  it  is  ended  !  Ah,  I  see  now  that  our 
wishes  are  not  always  granted.  Let  me  make  ready  for  the 
torture  of  altering  the  prayer.  Ah,  that  is  the  crudest  of 
all  suffering — it  is  the  end  of  everything.  Amen. 

Saturday,  October  18. — I  have  altered  my  prayer.  I  have 
omitted  the  prayer  for  him.  I  felt  as  if  my  heart  were 
being  torn  out — as  if  I  saw  them  carrying  away  the  coffin  of 
one  dear  to  me.  While  the  coffin  is  still  there,  one  is  un- 
happy indeed,  but  not  so  unhappy  as  when  one  feels  a  void 
on  every  side.  I  am  a  strange  creature  ;  no  one  suffers  as 
I  do,  yet  I  live,  I  sing,  I  write.  How  changed  I  am  since 
the  thirteenth  of  October, — that  fatal  day  !  Suffering  is 
depicted  on  my  countenance.  His  name  is  no  longer  the 
source  of  a  beneficent  warmth.  It  is  fire  ;  it  is  a  reproach 
to  me,  it  awakens  jealousy  and  grief  within  me.  This  is  the 
greatest  misfortune  that  can  happen  to  a  woman  ;  and  I 
have  experienced  it  !  Bitter  mockery  ! 

I  begin  to  think  seriously  about  my  voice.  I  should  so 
much  like  to  sing.  To  what  end,  now?  He  was  as  a  lamp 
within  my  soul,  and  now  this  lamp  is  extinguished.  All 
there  is  dark,  gloomy,  sorrowful.  I  know  not  which  way  to 
turn.  Before,  in  my  little  troubles  I  had  something  to  lean 
upon — a  light  that  guided  and  strengthened  me.  And  now 
I  may  seek  in  vain,  I  shall  find  nothing  but  a  dark  and 
dreary  void.  It  is  horrible  !  horrible  !  when  there  is  only  a 
void  in  the  depths  of  the  soul. 

Saturday,  October  25. — Yesterday  a  knock  came  to  my 
door,  and  they  told  me  that  mamma  was  very  ill.  I  went 
down  stairs,  half  asleep,  and  found  her  sitting  in  the  dining- 
room  in  a  dreadful  state.  She  wished  to  see  me,  she  said, 
before  her  death.  I  was  seized  with  horror,  but  I  did  not 


20  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1873. 

allow  this  feeling  to  appear.  Every  one  was  in  despair.  Dr. 
Reberg  and  Dr.  Macari  were  sent  for.  Servants  were  hur- 
ried off  in  all  directions  for  remedies.  Never  could  I  give 
an  idea  of  this  terrible  night.  I  spent  it  seated  in  an 'arm- 
chair near  the  window.  There  were  enough  persons  present 
to  do  all  that  was  necessary,  and  besides,  I  am  not  a  good 
nurse.  Never  have  I  suffered  so  much !  Yes,  on  the 
thirteenth  of  October  I  suffered  as  much,  but  in  a  different 
way. 

Tuesday,  October  28. — Poor  mamma  is  no  better  ;  those 
brutes  of  doctors  have  blistered  her,  which  has  made  her 
suffer  horribly.  The  best  medicines  are  cold  water  or  tea; 
those  are  natural  and  simple.  If  a  man  is  to  die,  he  will  die 
even  though  he  has  the  attendance  of  all  the  doctors  in  the 
world  ;  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  not  to  die,  then  he  will  not 
die,  even  if  he  have  no  assistance  at  all.  Reasoning  calmly, 
it  appears  to  me  that  it  is  better  to  dispense  with  all  those 
pharmaceutic  horrors. 

Paul  will  do  nothing  ;  he  does  not  study  ;  he  is  not  seri- 
ous enough  ;  he  does  not  understand  that  it  is  his  duty  to 
study,  and  this  grieves  me.  My  God,  inspire  him  with 
wisdom  ;  make  him  understand  that  he  ought  to  study  ;  in- 
spire him  with  a  little  ambition — -3.  little,  just  enough  to 
make  him  desire  to  be  something.  My  God,  hear  my 
prayer,  direct  him,  guard  him  against  all  those  miscreants 
who  seek  to  turn  him  from  the  right  path  ! 

Never  could  a  man  beneath  me  in  station  succeed  in 
pleasing  me.  Common  people  disgust  me  ;  they  sicken  me. 
A  poor  man  loses  half  his  manhood.  He  looks  small,  mis- 
erable, and  has  the  air  of  a  beggar,  while  the  rich  and  inde- 
pendent man  carries  himself  haughtily,  and  has  a  certain 
comfortable  air.  Self-confidence  r;ives  one  a  victorious  look. 
And  I  love  in  H —  —  this  self-confident,  capricious,  vain, 
and  cruel  air.  He  has  something  of  the  Nero  in  him. 


1873-1          JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  2t 

Saturday^  November  8. — We  should  never  give  too  much 
of  our  society  even  to  those  who  love  us.  It  is  well  not  to 
stay  too  long  in  any  company  so  as  to  leave  regrets  and  illu- 
sions behind  us  when  we  depart.  One  will  thus  appear  to 
better  advantage,  and  seem  to  be  worth  more.  People  will 
then  desire  to  see  you  return  ;  but  do  not  gratify  that  desire 
immediately  ;  make  them  wait  for  you,  but  not  too  long, 
however.  Anything  that  costs  too  much  loses  by  the  diffi- 
culty with  which  it  is  obtained.  Something  better  was  an- 
ticipated. Or,  on  the  other  hand,  make  them  wait  a  very 
long  time  for  you — then  you  will  be  a  queen. 

I  think  I  must  have  a  fever  ;  I  suffer,  and  I  try  to  disguise 
my  feelings  by  talking.  No  one  would  suspect  it  ;  I  sing,  I 
laugh,  I  jest.  The  more  unhappy  I  am  the  gayer  I  seem 
to  be. 

All  that  I  could  write  would  never  express  what  I  feel ;  I 
am  stupid,  mad  ;  I  feel  myself  deeply  aggrieved.  It  seems 
to  me  that  in  marrying  the  Duke  they  are  robbing  me  of  him. 
It  is,  in  truth,  as  if  they  had  taken  something  from  me  that 
was  my  own.  What  a  wretched  state  !  I  do  not  know  how- 
to  express  myself,  but  I  feel  that  I  am  too  weak  ;  for  a  mere 
nothing  I  make  use  of  the  strongest  expressions,  and  when 
I  wish  to  speak  seriously  I  find  there  is  nothing  left. 

It  is  only  now  that  looking  at  mamma  as  if  she  were  a 
stranger,  I  find  that  she  is  charming,  beautiful  as  the  day  ; 
although  she  is  worn  out  with  all  sorts  of  troubles  and  mala- 
dies. When  she  speaks  her  voice  is  so  sweet — not  high,  but 
vibrating  and  sweet — and  her  manners,  although  natural  and 
simple,  are  agreeable. 

Saturday,  November  29. — I  am  tortured  by  jealousy,  love, 
envy,  deceit,  wounded  vanity,  by  every  hideous  feeling  in 
the  world.  Above  all,  I  feel  his  loss.  I  love  him  ! 

One  thing  tortures  me  especially ;  it  is  that  in  a  few 
years  I  shall  laugh  at  myself,  that  I  shall  have  forgotten  all 


22  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1874. 

this!  (1875 . — //  is  two  years  since  that  time,  yet  I  do  not  laugh 
at  myself,  and  I  have  not  forgotten^)  All  these  sorrows  will 
seem  to  me  childishness  and  affectation — but,  no,  I  conjure 
you,  do  not  forget  !  When  you  read  these  lines  go  back  to  the 
past,  think  that  you  are  again  thirteen  years  old  ;  that  you 
are  at  Nice  ;  that  all  this  is  taking  place  now  !  Think  that 
the  past  lives  now  !  You  will  understand  !  You  will  be 
happy  ! 

Sunday,  November  30. — I  wish  he  would  marry  at  once. 
It  is  always  thus  with  me  ;  when  anything  disagreeable  is  to 
be  done,  instead  of  wanting  to  put  it  off,  I  wish  to  have  it 
over.  When  we  left  Paris,  I  made  them  hasten  the  hour  of 
our  departure ;  I  knew  that  pill  must  be  swallowed.  The 
expectation  of  an  unpleasantness  is  more  terrible  than  the 
thing  itself. 


1874. 

Sunday,  Jamiary  4. — How  sweet  it  is  to  awaken  naturally 
from  sleep !  My  alarm  has  not  yet  sounded,  and  my  eyes 
have  unclosed  of  themselves  !  It  is  as  if  one  were  gliding  on 
in  a  boat :  one  sinks  into  a  revery,  and  when  one  wakens 
out  of  it  one  has  already  arrived  at  one's  destination. 

Friday,  Jamiary  9. — On  returning  from  a  walk  to-day  I 
said  to  myself  that  I  would  not  be  like  some  girls,  who  are 
comparatively  serious  and  reserved.  I  do  not  understand 
how  this  seriousness  comes;  how  from  childhood  one  passes 
to  the  state  of  girlhood.  I  asked  myself,  "  How  does  this 
happen?  Little  by  little,  or  in  a  single  day?"  Love,  or  a 
misfortune,  is  what  develops,  ripens,  or  alters  the  character. 
If  I  were  a  bel  esprit  I  should  say  they  were  synonymous 
terms  ;  but  I  do  not  say  so,  for  love  is  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  whole  world.  I  compare  myself  to  a  piece  of 


1874.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  23 

water  that  is  frozen  in  its  depths,  and  has  motion  only  on 
the  surface,  for  nothing  amuses  or  interests  me  in  my 
DEPTHS. 

Thursday,  January  24. — All  last  winter  I  could  not  sing 
a  note.  I  was  in  despair  ;  I  thought  I  had  lost  my  voice, 
and  I  blushed  and  remained  silent  when  I  was  spoken  to. 
Now  it  has  come  back  again,  my  voice,  my  treasure,  my 
fortune  !  I  receive  it  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  I  thank 
God  for  it  on  my  knees.  I  said  nothing,  but  I  was  cruelly 
grieved.  I  did  not  dare  to  speak  of  it.  I  prayed  to  God, 
and  He  lias  heard  me  !  What  happiness?  What  a  pleasure 
it  is  to  sing  well !  One  feels  as  if  one  were  all-powerful, 
one  thinks  one's-self  a  queen  !  How  happy  one  is  !  happy 
in  one's  own  worth.  It  is  not  like  the  pride  that  springs 
from  the  possession  of  wealth  or  a  title.  One  is  more  than 
woman  ;  one  feels  one's  self  immortal.  One  is  freed  from 
earth  ;  one  soars  into  heaven  !  And  all  the  people  wLo 
hang  upon  your  notes,  who  listen  to  your  song  as  to  a 
voice  from  heaven,  who  are  electrified,  carried  away  by 
enthusiasm,  ravished — you  hold  sway  over  them  all.  After 
real  sovereignty  comes  the  sovereignty  of  song.  The  sove- 
reignty of  beauty  comes  after  this,  because  its  sway  is  not 
a  universal  one  ;  but  song  lifts  man  above  the  earth  ;  his 
soul  soars  above  it  in  a  cloud  like  that  in  which  Venus 
appeared  to  ^Eneas. 

Tuesday,  July  6. — Nothing  in  the  world  is  lost.  If  we 
cease  to  love  one  individual,  this  affection  is  immediately 
transferred  to  another,  even  without  our  being  conscious  of 
it ;  and  if  we  fancy  we  love  no  one,  we  deceive  ourselves. 
If  one  does  not  love  a  man,  one  loves  a  dog  or  a  piece  of 
furniture  ;  and  with  the  same  ardor,  only  in  a  different 
fashion.  If  I  loved  a  man,  I  would  want  him  to  love  me  as 
I  loved  him.  I  would  allow  nothing — not  even  a  single 


24  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  SASHKIRTSEFF.          [1874. 

word — for  another.  Such  a  love  is  not  to  be  found  ;  there- 
fore I  will  never  love,  for  I  should  never  be  loved  as  I  desire 
to  be  loved. 

July  14. — They  have  been  talking  of  Latin,  of  the  Lyceum, 
of  the  examination  ;  all  this  has  given  me  an  intense  desire 
to  study,  and  when  Brunet  came  to-day,  I  did  not  keep  him 
waiting.  I  asked  him  about  the  examination  ;  the  informa- 
tion he  gave  me  was  such  that  I  feel  myself  capable,  after  a 
year's  preparation,  of  presenting  myself  for  the  degree  of 
bachelor  of  arts  and  sciences.  I  will  speak  to  him  further 
about  it. 

July  15. — Last  night  I  said  to  the  moop,  after  leaving  the 
Sapogenikoffs  :  "Moon,  O  beautiful  moon,  show  me  the 
person  I  shall  marry  before  I  die  !  " 

If  you  say  these  words  to  the  moon,  without  speaking 
afterward  until  you  fall  asleep,  they  say  the  person  you 
dream  of  is  the  one  you  are  to  marry. 

It  is  all  nonsense.  I  dreamed  of  S.  and  A. — two  impos- 
sibilities. I  am  in  a  bad  humor  ;  I  fail  in  everything  I 
attempt  ;  nothing  succeeds  with  me.  I  shall  be  punished 
for  my  pride  and  my  stupid  arrogance.  Read  this,  good 
people,  and  profit  by  it  !  This  journal  is  the  most  useful 
and  the  most  instructive  of  all  the  books  that  ever  were  or 
ever  will  be  written.  It  is  the  transcript  of  a  woman's 
life — her  thoughts  and  hopes,  her  deceptions,  meannesses, 
good  qualities,  sorrows  and  joys.  I  am  not  yet  altogether  a 
woman,  but  I  shall  be.  One  may  follow  me  here  from 
childhood  to  death.  For.  the  life  of  any  one — one's  entire 
life,  without  any  concealment  or  disguise — is  always  a  grand 
and  interesting  spectacle. 

Friday,  July  16. — In  regard  to  the  transference  of  love, 
all  I  possess  at  present  is  concentrated  on  Victor,  one  of 
my  dogs.  I  breakfast  with  him  sitting  opposite  to  me,  his 
fine,  large  head  resting  on  the  table.  Let  us  love  dogs  ;  let 


1874.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  25 

us  love  only  dogs.  Men  and  cats  are  unworthy  creatures. 
And  yet  a  dog  is  a  filthy  animal  !  He  looks  at  you  with 
hungry  eyes  while  you  eat  ;  he  follows  you  about  for  the 
sake  of  his  dinner.  Still  I  never  feed  my  dogs  and  they 
love  me,  and  Prater,  through  jealousy  of  Victor,  has  left  me 
and  gone  over  to  mamma  !  And  men — do  not  they  ask  to 
be  fed  ?  Are  not  they  voracious  and  mercenary  ? 

We  do  not  return  to  Russia.  .  .  . 

I  am  going  to  say  once  more  to  the  moon  :  "  Moon,  O 
beautiful  moon,  show  me  in  my  sleep  the  person  I  am  to 
marry  before  I  die  !  " 

My  hair,  fastened  in  a  Pysche  knot,  is  redder  than  ever. 
In  a  woolen  gown  of  a  peculiar  white,  well-fitting  and  grace- 
ful, and  a  lace  handkerchief  around  my  neck,  I  look  like 
one  of  the  portraits  of  the  First  Empire  ;  in  order  to  make 
the  picture  complete  I  should  be  seated  under  a  tree,  hold- 
ing a  book  in  my  hand.  I  love  to  be  alone  before  a  look- 
ing-glass, and  admire  my  hands,  so  fine  and  white,  and 
faintly  rosy  in  the  palms. 

Perhaps  it  is  stupid  to  praise  one's-self  in  this  way,  but 
people  who  write  always  describe  their  heroine,  and  I  am 
my  heroine.  And  it  would  be  ridiculous  for  me  to  lower  or 
belittle  myself  through  false  modesty.  One  makes  little  of 
one's-self  in  conversation,  because  one  is  sure  of  being  con- 
tradicted, but  if  I  were  to  do  so  in  writing,  every  one  would 
believe  I  was  speaking  the  truth,  and  that  I  was  ugly  and 
stupid,  and  that  would  be  absurd  ! 

Fortunately  or  unfortunately,  I  esteem  myself  so  great  a 
treasure  that  I  think  there  is  no  one  worthy  of  me,  and  those 
who  raise  their  eyes  to  this  treasure  are  regarded  by  me  as 
hardly  worthy  of  pity.  I  think  myself  a  divinity,  and  lean- 
not  conceive  how  a  man  like  S.  should  fancy  he  could  please 
me.  I  could  scarcely  treat  a  king  as  an  equal.  I  think 
that  is  as  it  should  be.  I  look  down  on  men  from  such  a 
height  that  they  find  me  charming,  for  it  is  not  becoming  to 


26  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1874. 

despise  those  who  are  so  far  beneath  us.     I  regard  them  as 
a  hare  would  regard  a  mouse. 

Monday,  August  2. — After  a  day  spent  with  seamstresses 
and  dressmakers,  in  shopping,  promenading,  and  coqueting, 
I  put  on  my  wrapper  and  sat  down  to  read  my  good  friend 
Plutarch. 

Tuesday,  August  17. — Last  night  I  dreamed  of  the  Fronde  : 
I  had  entered  the  service  of  Anne  of  Austria,  I  thought, 
and  she  doubted  my  loyalty,  so  I  led  her  into  the  midst  of 
the  rebellious  people,  crying  "  Vive  la  Reine .' "  and  the  people 
cried  after  me,  "  Vive  la  Reine  !  " 

Wednesday,  August  18. — To-day  has  been  spent  in  admir- 
ing me.  Mamma  admired  me,  and  the  Princess  S.  admired 
me.  The  Princess  is  always  saying  that  I  look  either  like 
mamma  or  like  her  daughter  ;  and  that  is  the  greatest  com- 
pliment she  could  pay  me.  One  never  thinks  better  of 
others  than  of  one's  own.  The  fact  is,  that  I  am  really 
pretty.  The  picture  on  the  ceiling  of  the  great  saloon  of 
the  Ducal  Palace  at  Venice,  by  Paul  Veronese,  represents 
Venus  as  a  tall  woman,  blonde  and  fresh-colored.  I  resem- 
ble that  picture.  My  photographs  are  never  like  me.  Color 
is  wanting  in  them,  and  the  unequaled  freshness  and  white- 
ness of  my  skin  are  my  chief  charm.  But  let  any  one  put 
me  in  a  bad  humor  ;  let  me  be  dissatisfied  with  anything  ; 
let  me  be  tired, — and  adieu  to  my  beauty!  There  is  nothing 
more  fragile  than  I.  It  is  only  when  I  am  happy  and  tran- 
quil that  I  am  charming. 

PARIS,  Wednesday,  Aitgust  24. — I  begin  now  to  live,  and 
to  try  to  realize  my  dreams  of  becoming  famous.  I  am 
already  known  to  many  people.  I  look  at  myself  in  the 
glass,  and  I  find  that  I  am  beautiful.  I  am  beautiful ;  what 


1874.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  27 

more  do  I  want  ?  Can  I  not  accomplish  anything  with  that  ? 
My  God,  in  giving  me  the  little  beauty  I  possess  (I  say  little 
through  modesty)  you  have  already  given  me  too  much.  O 
my  God  !  I  feel  myself  to  be  beautiful ;  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  shall  succeed  in  all  that  I  undertake.  Everything  smiles 
upon  me,  and  I  am  happy,  happy,  happy  ! 

The  noise  of  Paris,  this  hotel,  as  large  as  a  city,  with 
people  always  walking,  talking,  reading,  smoking,  looking, 
confuse  me.  I  love  Paris,  and  it  makes  my  heart  beat  with 
emotion  to  be  here.  I  want  to  live  faster,  faster,  faster  ! 
("  I  never  saw  such  a  fever  of  life,"  D.  says,  looking  at  me.) 
It  is  true  ;  I  fear  that  this  desire  to  live  always  at  high  pres- 
sure is  the  presage  of  a  short  existence.  Who  knows  ? 
Come,  I  am  growing  melancholy.  No,  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  melancholy. 

Sunday,  September  6. — There  were  so  many  people  from 
Nice  in  the  Bois  that  I  thought  for  a  moment  I  was  at  Nice. 
Nice  is  so  beautiful  in  September  !  I  recall  the  morning 
walks  I  took  last  year  with  my  dogs,  the  sky  so  pure,  the 
sea  so  silvery.  Here  there  is  neither  morning  nor  evening. 
In  the  morning  they  are  sweeping  ;  in  the  evening  the  in- 
numerable lights  irritate  my  nerves.  I  lose  my  bearings 
here — I  cannot  distinguish  the  east  from  the  west.  While  at 
Nice  one  is  comfortable  !  It  is  as  if  one  were  in  a  nest  sur- 
rounded by  mountains,  not  too  high  nor  too  bare.  One  is 
sheltered  on  three  sides  as  if  by  a  graceful  and  easy  mantle, 
and  in  front  there  is  a  boundless  horizon,  always  the  same, 
and  always  new.  I  love  Nice.  Nice  is  my  country.  Nice 
has  seen  me  grow  up  ;  Nice  has  given  me  health  and  a  fresh 
color.  It  is  so  beautiful !  One  rises  with  the  dawn  and  sees 
the  sun  appear  yonder  to  the  left,  behind  the  mountains 
which  stand  out  boldly  from  a  silvery  blue  sky,  so  soft  and 
vaporous  that  one  can  scarcely  speak  for  joy.  Toward 
noon  the  sun  faces  me  ;  it  is  a  warm  day,  but  it  does  not 


28  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF,          [1874. 

seem  warm  ;  there  is  that  delightful  breeze  that  always  keeps 
the  atmosphere  cool.  Everything  seems  asleep.  There  is 
not  a  soul  to  be  seen  on  the  promenade  save  two  or  three  of  the 
tovvn's-people  dozing  on  the  benches.  Then  1  can  breathe 
freely  ;  then  I  can  admire  nature.  In  the  evening  the  same 
sea,  the  same  sky,  the  same  mountains.  But  at  night  all  is 
black  or  deep  blue.  And  when  the  moon  shines,  leaving  a 
silvery  track  upon  the  waters  that  looks  like  an  enormous  fish 
with  diamond  scales,  and  I  am  seated  at  my  window,  peace- 
ful and  alone,  a  mirror  and  two  wax  tapers  in  front,  I  ask  for 
nothing  more,  and  I  bow  down  in  thankfulness  before  God. 
Oh,  no,  what  I  desire  to  express  will  not  be  understood  ;  it 
will  not  be  understood  because  it  has  not  been  experienced. 
No,  it  is  not  that  !  It  is  that  I  grow  desperate  every  time  I 
try  to  express  what  I  feel !  It  is  as  when  one  is  in  a  night- 
mare and  has  not  the  strength  to  cry  out ! 

Besides,  one  can  never  give  by  words  the  least  idea  of 
real  life.  How  describe  the  freshness,  the  perfume  of  mem- 
ory ?  One  may  invent,  one  may  create,  but  one  cannot 
copy.  It  is  of  no  avail  to  feel  what  one  writes  ;  commonplace 
words  only  are  the  result ;  woods,  mountains,  sky,  moon, 
everybody  uses  these  words.  And  then,  why  write  all  this? 
What  does  it  matter  to  others  ?  Others  will  never  under- 
stand it,  since  it  is  not  they,  but  I,  who  have  felt  it.  I  alone 
understand  and  remember.  And  then,  men  are  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  trying  to  make  them  understand.  Every  one 
feels  for  himself,  as  I  do.  I  should  like  to  see  others  feel  as 
I  feel,  through  my  means  ;  but  that  would  be  impossible  ;  to 
do  so  they  must  be  /.  My  child,  my  child,  leave  all  this 
alone  ;  you  lose  yourself  in  subtleties  of  thought.  You  will 
become  crazy  if  you  excite  yourself  about  those  things  as 
you  did  before  about  your  DEPTHS.  There  are  so  many 
people  of  intelligence — well,  not  that.  I  mean  to  say  that 
it  is  their  part  to  understand  you.  Well,  no  !  They  can 
create,  but  understand — no,  no,  a  hundred  thousand  times, 


I874-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  ?<) 

no  !     In  all  this  what  is  very  evident  is,  that  I  am  homesick 
for  Nice. 

Monday,  September  6. — Though  I  am  in  a  state  of  depres- 
sion and  constant  suffering,  I  do  not  curse  life  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  love  it,  and  I  find  it  good.  Will  it  be  believed,  I  find 
everything,  even  tears,  even  grief,  good  and  pleasant.  I  love 
to  weep  ;  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  despair  ;  I  love  to  be 
troubled  and  sorrowful.  I  regard  these  feelings  as  so  many 
diversions,  and  I  love  life,  notwithstanding  them  all.  I  wish 
to  live.  It  would  be  cruel  to  make  me  die  when  I  am  so 
accommodating.  I  weep,  I  complain,  and  I  take  pleasure 
in  doing  so.  No,  not  that ;  I  don't  know  how  to  express 
myself.  In  a  word,  everything  in  life  pleases  me  ;  I  find 
everything  agreeable  ;  and  while  I  ask  for  happiness  I  find 
myself  happy  in  being  miserable  ;  my  body  suffers  and 
cries  out,  but  something  within  me,  above  me,  rejoices  at 
everything.  It  is  not  that  I  prefer  tears  to  joy,  but  far 
from  cursing  life  in  my  moments  of  despair,  I  bless  it  ;  I 
say  to  myself  that  I  am  unhappy,  I  pity  myself,  but  I  find 
life  so  beautiful  that  everything  seems  tome  beautiful,  and 
I  feel  I  must  live  !  Apparently  this  some  one  who  is  above 
me,  who  rejoices  at  so  much  weeping,  has  gone  out  this 
evening,  for  I  feel  very  unhappy. 

Thursday,  September  9. — We  are  at  Marseilles,  and  are  to 
leave  this  ill-smelling  city  at  one  o'clock. 

At  last  I  behold  it,  the  Mediterranean,  for  which  I  have 
sighed.  How  black  the  trees  are  !  And  the  moon  casts  a 
track  of  silvery  light  across  the  waters. 

The  silence  is  complete  ;  there  is  not  a  sound,  either  of 
carriage-wheels  or  footsteps,  to  be  heard.  I  enter  my  dress- 
ing-room and  throw  open  the  window  to  look  out  upon  the 
chateau,  which  is  unchanged.  And  the  clock  strikes — what 
hour  I  know  not — and  my  heart  is  oppressed  with  sadness, 


3°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1874. 

Ah,  I  might  well  call  this  year  the  year  of  sighs !  I  am 
tired,  but  I  love  Nice  ! — I  love  Nice ! 

Friday,  September  10  (Journey  to  Florence). — The  mos- 
quitoes awakened  me  a  dozen  times  during  the  night,  but, 
notwithstanding  this,  I  woke  up  in  the  morning  with  a  sense 
of  well-being,  though  I  was  still  a  little  fatigued. 

Sunday,  September  13. — We  drove  through  the  city  en 
toilette,  in  a  landau.  Ah,  how  I  admire  these  somber  edi- 
fices, these  porticos,  these  columns,  this  grand  and  massive 
architecture  !  Blush  for  shame,  ye  architects  of  England, 
France,  and  Russia  !  Hide  yourselves  under  the  earth  ; 
sink  into  the  ground,  ye  cardboard  palaces  of  Paris  !  Not 
the  Louvre — that  is  above  criticism — but  all  the  others. 
They  will  never  bear  comparison  with  the  superb  magnifi- 
cence of  the  Italians.  I  was  struck  with  amazement  on 
seeing  the  huge  stones  of  the  Palazzo  Pitti.  The  city  is  dirty, 
almost  squalid,  but  how  many  beauties  it  possesses  !  O 
city  of  Dante,  of  the  Medici,  of  Savonarola,  how  full  of 
splendid  memorials  for  those  who  think,  who  feel,  who 
know  !  What  masterpieces  !  What  ruins  !  O  puppet- 
king  !  Ah,  if  I  were  only  queen  ! 

I  adore  painting,  sculpture,  art,  in  short,  wherever  it  is  to 
be  found.  I  could  spend  entire  days  in  those  galleries,  but 
my  aunt  is  not  well ;  she  has  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with 
me,  and  I  sacrifice  myself  to  her  comfort.  Besides,  life  is 
all  before  me  ;  I  shall  have  time  enough  to  see  all  this  after- 
ward. 

At  the  Pitti  Palace  I  did  not  find  a  single  costume  to 
copy,  but  what  beauty,  what  art  ?  Must  I  say  it  ?  I  dare 
not.  Every  one  will  cry  "  Shame,  shame  !  "  Come  then,  in 
confidence — Well,  I  don't  like  the  Madonna  delta  Sedia, 
of  Raphael.  The  countenance  of  the  Virgin  is  pale,  the 
color  is  not  natural,  the  expression  is  that  of  a  waiting-maid 


1 8 74.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  31 

rather  than  that  of  a  Madonna.  Ah,  but  there  is  a  Mag- 
dalen of  Titian  that  enchanted  me.  Only — there  is  always 
an  only — her  wrists  are  too  thick,  and  her  hands  are  too 
plump — beautiful  hands  they  would  be  in  a  woman  of  fifty. 
There  are  things  of  Rubens  and  Vandyke  that  are  ravishing. 
The  "  Mensonge,"  of  Salvator  Rosa  is  very  natural.  I  do 
not  speak  as  a  connoisseur  ;  what  most  resembles  nature 
pleases  me  most.  Is  it  not  the  aim  of  painting  to  copy 
nature  ?  I  like  very  much  the  full,  fresh  countenance  of 
the  wife  of  Paul  Veronese,  painted  by  him.  I  like  the  style 
of  his  faces.  I  adore  Titian  and  Vandyke  ;  but  that  poor 
Raphael  !  Provided  only  no  one  knows  what  I  write  !  peo- 
ple would  take  me  for  a  fool.  I  do  not  criticise  Raphael, 
I  don't  understand  him  ;  in  time  I  shall  no  doubt  learn  to 
appreciate  his  beauties.  The  portrait  of  Pope  Leo — Tenth, 
I  think  it  is — is  admirable,  however.  A  "  Virgin  with  the 
Infant  Jesus,"  of  Murillo,  attracted  my  attention  ;  it  is  fresh 
and  natural.  To  my  great  satisfaction  I  found  the  picture 
gallery  smaller  than  I  had  thought  it  to  be.  Those  galleries 
without  end — those  labyrinths  more  intricate  than  that  of 
Crete — are  killing. 

I  spent  two  hours  in  the  palace  without  sitting  down  for 
an  instant,  yet  I  am  not  tired.  That  is  because  the  things 
one  loves  do  not  tire  one.  So  long  as  there  are  paintings, 
and,  better  still,  statues,  to  be  seen,  I  am  made  of  iron. 
Ah,  if  I  were  compelled  to  walk  through  the  shops  of  the 
Louvre,  or  the  Bon  Marche,  or  even  through  the  establish- 
ment of  Worth,  I  should  be  ready  to  cry  at  the  end  of  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour.  No  journey  ever  pleased  me  so  much 
as  this  one  has  done.  I  find  an  endless  number  of  things 
that  are  worth  being  seen  ;  I  adore  those  somber  Strozzi 
palaces.  And  I  adore  those  immense  doors,  those  superb 
courts,  those  galleries,  those  colonnades.  They  are  majes- 
tic, grand,  beautiful !  Ah,  the  world  is  degenerating  ;  one 
would  like  to  sink  into  the  earth  when  one  compares  our 


32  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1875. 

modern  buildings  with  those  structures  of  gigantic  stones, 
piled  one  upon  another,  and  mounting  up  to  the  sky.  One 
passes  under  bridges  that  connect  palaces  at  a  prodigious 
height. 

Oh,  my  child,  be  careful  of  your  expressions  !     What 
then,  will  you  say  of  Rome  ? 


1875- 

Friday,  Octoberi. — God  has  not  done  what  I  asked  Him 
to  do ;  I  am  resigned  ;  (not  at  all,  I  am  only  waiting).  Oh, 
how  tiresome  it  is  to  wait,  to  do  nothing  but  wait  ! 

Disorder  in  the  house  is  a  source  of  great  annoyance  to 
me.  The  swallow  builds  her  nest,  the  lion  makes  his  lair  ; 
why,  then,  should  not  man,  so  superior  to  the  other  animals, 
follow  this  example. 

When  I  say  "so  superior,"  I  do  not  mean  that  I 
esteem  man  more  than  the  other  animals.  No  ;  I  despise 
men  profoundly  and  from  conviction.  I  expect  nothing 
good  from  them.  I  should  be  satisfied  after  all  my  waiting 
to  find  one  good  and  perfect  soul.  Those  who  are  good 
are  stupid,  and  those  who  are  intelligent  are  either  too  false 
or  too  self-conceited  to  be  good.  Besides,  every  human  be- 
ing is  by  nature  selfish,  and  find  goodness  for  me  if  you  can 
in  an  egotist  !  Self-interest,  deceit,  intrigue,  envy,  rather. 
Happy  are  they  who  possess  ambition — that  is  a  noble  pas- 
sion; through  vanity  or  through  ambition  one  seeks  to  ap- 
pear well  in  the  eyes  of  others  sometimes,  and  that  is  better 
than  not  at  all.  Well,  my  child,  have  you  come  to  the  end 
of  your  philosophy  ?  For  the  moment,  yes.  In  this  way, 
at  least,  I  shall  suffer  fewer  disappointments.  No  mean- 
ness will  grieve  me,  no  base  action  surprise  me.  The  day 
will  doubtless  come  when  I  shall  think  I  have  found  a 
man,but,  if  so,  I  shall  deceive  myself  wofully.  I  can 


1875.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKlRTSZFF.  33 

well  foresee  that  day  ;  I  shall  then  be  blind.  I  say  this 
now  while  I  can  see  clearly.  But  in  that  case  why  live  ; 
since  there  is  nothing  but  meanness  and  wickedness  in 
the  world  ?  Why  ?  Because  I  am  reconciled  to  the  knowl- 
edge that  this  is  so  ;  because,  whatever  people  may  say,  life 
is  very  beautiful.  And  because,  if  one  does  not  analyze 
too  deeply,  one  may  live  happily.  To  count  neither  on 
friendship  nor  gratitude,  nor  loyalty  nor  honesty  ;  to  elevate 
one's-self  courageously  above  the  meannesses  of  humanity, 
and  take  one's  stand  between  them  and  God  ;  to  get  all  one 
can  out  of  life,  and  that  quickly  ;  to  do  no  injury  to  one's 
fellow-beings  ;  to  make  one's  life  luxurious  and  magnificent; 
to  be  independent,  so  far  as  it  be  possible,  of  others  ;  to  pos- 
sess power  ! — yes,  power ! — no  matter  by  what  means  ! — • 
this  is  to  be  feared  and  respected  ;  this  is  to  be  strong,  and 
that  is  the  height  of  human  felicity,  because  one's  fellow- 
beings  are  then  muzzled,  and  either  through  cowardice  or 
for  other  reasons  will  not  seek  to  tear  one  to  pieces. 

Is  it  not  strange  to  hear  me  reason  in  this  way  ?  Yes, 
but  this  manner  of  reasoning  in  a  young  creature  like  me  is 
but  another  proof  of  how  bad  the  world  is  ;  it  must  be 
thoroughly  saturated  with  wickedness  to  have  so  saddened 
me  in  so  short  a  time.  I  am  only  fifteen. 

And  this  proves  the  divine  mercy  of  God  ;  for,  when  I 
shall  be  completely  initiated  into  all  the  baseness  of  the 
world,  I  shall  see  that  there  is  only  He  above  in  the  heav- 
ens, and  I  here  below  on  earth.  This  conviction  will  give 
me  greater  strength  ;  I  shall  take  note  of  vulgar  things 
only  in  order  to  elevate  myself,  and  I  shall  be  happy  when 
I  am  no  longer  disheartened  by  the  meannesses  around 
which  men's  lives  revolve,  and  which  make  them  fight  with 
each  other,  devour  each  other,  and  tear  each  other  to  pieces, 
like  hungry  dogs. 

Here  are  words  enough  !  And  to  what  am  I  going  to 
elevate  myself  ?  And  how  ?  Oh,  dreams  ! 


34  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1875. 

I  elevate  myself  intellectually  for  the  present ;  my  soul  is 
great,  I  am  capable  of  great  things ;  but  of  what  use  will  all 
that  be  to  me,  since  I  live  in  an  obscure  corner,  unknown 
to  all  ? 

There,  you  see  that  I  do  set  some  store  by  my  worthless 
fellow-beings  ;  that  I  have  never  disdained  them  ;  on  the 
contrary,  I  seek  them  ;  without  them  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world.  Only — only  that  I  value  them  at  their  worth,  and  I 
desire  to  make  use  of  them. 

The  multitude,  that  is  everything.  What  matter  to  me  a 
few  superior  beings?  I  need  everybody — I  need  eclat, 
fame  ! 

Why  can  one  never  speak  without  exaggeration  ?  .  .  . 
There  are  peaceful  souls,  there  are  beautiful  actions  and 
honest  hearts,  but  they  are  so  rarely  to  be  met  with  that  one 
must  not  confound  them  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Saturday,  October  9. — If  I  had  been  born  Princess  of 
Bourbon,  like  Madame  de  Longueville  ;  if  I  had  counts  for 
servitors,  kings  for  relations  and  friends  ;  if,  since  my  first 
step  in  life,  I  had  met  only  with  bowed  heads  and  courtiers 
eager  to  please  me  ;  if  I  had  trodden  only  on  heraldic 
devices,  and  slept  only  under  regal  canopies,  and  had  had 
a  succession  of  ancestors  each  one  more  glorious  and 
haughtier  than  all  the  rest,  it  seems  to  me  I  should  be 
neither  prouder  nor  more  arrogant  than  I  am. 

O  my  God,  how  I  bless  thee  !  These  thoughts  with 
which  you  inspire  me  will  keep  me  in  the  right  path,  and 
will  prevent  me  from  turning  away  my  gaze  even  for  an  in- 
stant from  the  luminous  star  toward  which  I  move.  I 
think  that,  at  present,  I  do  not  move  at  all  ;  but  I  shall 
move  ;  and  for  so  slight  a  cause  it  is  not  worth  while  to 
alter  so  fine  a  sentence.  Ah,  how  weary  I  am  of  my  ob- 
scurity !  I  am  consumed  by  inaction  ;  I  am  growing  moldy 
in  this  darkness.  Oh,  for  the  light,  the  light,  the  light  ! 


1875.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  35 

From  what  side  will  it  come  to  me  ?  When  ?  Where  ? 
How  ?  I  desire  to  know  nothing,  provided  only  that  it 
come  ! 

In  my  moments  of  wild  longing  for  greatness  common 
objects  appear  to  me  unworthy  of  my  attention  ;  my  pen 
refuses  to  write  a  commonplace  word  ;  I  look  with  supreme 
disdain  on  everything  that  surrounds  me,  and  I  say  to  my- 
self with  a  sigh,  "  Come,  courage  !  this  stage  of  existence  is 
but  the  passage  to  that  in  which  I  shall  be  happy." 

Monday,  December  27. — All  my  life  is  contained  in  this 
diary  ;  my  calmest  moments  are  those  in  which  I  write  ; 
they  are  perhaps  my  only  calm  moments. 

If  I  should  die  young,  I  will  burn  these  pages  ;  but  if  I 
live  to  be  old,  this  diary  will  be  given  to  the  public.  I 
believe  there  is  no  photograph  yet,  if  I  may  so  express  my- 
self, of  the  whole  life  of  a  woman — of  all  her  thoughts,  of 
everything,  everything.  It  will  be  curious. 

If  I  die  young,  and  it  should  chance  that  my  journal  is 
not  burned,  people  will  say,  "  Poor  child  ;  she  has  loved, 
and  all  her  despair  comes  from  that !  " 

Let  them  say  so,  I  shall  not  try  to  prove  the  contrary, 
for  the  more  I  should  try  to  do  so  the  less  would  I  be 
believed. 

What  can  there  be  more  stupid,  more  cowardly,  more  vile, 
than  humanity?  Nothing.  Humanity  was  created  for  the 
perdition  of — good  !  I  was  going  to  say,  of  humanity. 

It  is  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and,  as  my  aunt  says, 
I  shall  gain  nothing  by  losing  my  sleep. 

Oh,  how  impatient  I  am  !  I  wish  to  believe  that  my  time 
will  come,  but  something  tells  me  that  it  will  never  come  ; 
that  I  shall  spend  my  life  in  waiting — always  waiting. 

Tuesday,  December  28. — I  am  so  nervous  that  every 
piece  of  music  that  is  not  a  galop  makes  me  shed  tears. 


3<$  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1875. 

The  most  commonplace  words  of  any  opera  I  chance  to 
come  across  touch  me  to  the  heart. 

Such  a  condition  of  things  would  do  honor  to  a  woman 
of  thirty.  But  to  have  nerves  at  fifteen,  to  cry  like  a  fool 
at  every  stupid,  sentimental  phrase  I  meet,  is  pitiable. 

Just  now  I  fell  on  my  knees,  sobbing,  and  praying  to 
God  with  outstretched  arms,  and  eyes  fixed  straight  before 
me,  just  as  if  He  were  there  in  my  room.  It  appears  that 
God  does  not  hear  me.  Yet  I  cry  to  Him  loudly  enough. 

Shall  I  ever  find  a  dog  on  the  streets,  famished,  and 
beaten  by  boys  ;  a  horse  that  drags  behind  him  from  morn- 
ing till  night  a  load  beyond  his  strength  ;  a  miller's  ass,  a 
church  mouse,  a  professor  of  mathematics  without  pupils, 
an  unfrocked  priest,  a — poor  devil  of  any  kind  sufficiently 
crushed,  sufficiently  miserable,  sufficiently  sorrowful,  suffi- 
ciently humiliated,  sufficiently  depressed,  to  be  compared  to 
me  ?  The  most  dreadful  thing  with  me  is  that  humiliations, 
when  they  are  past,  do  not  glide  from  my  heart,  but  leave 
there  their  hideous  traces.  To  be  compelled  to  lead  a  life 
like  mine,  with  a  character  such  as  mine  !  I  have  not  even 
the  pleasures  proper  to  my  age  !  I  have  not  even  the  re- 
source that  every  American  girl  has,  I  do  not  even  dance  ! 

Wednesday,  December  29. — My  God,  if  you  will  make  my 
life  what  I  wish  it  to  be,  I  make  a  vow,  if  you  will  but  take 
pity  upon  me,  to  go  from  Kharkoff  to  Kieff,  on  foot,  like  the 
pilgrims.  If,  along  with  this,  you  will  satisfy  my  ambition 
and  render  me  completely  happy,  I  will  take  a  vow  to  make 
a  journey  to  Jerusalem,  and  to  go  a  tenth  part  of  the  way 
on  foot.  Is  it  not  a  sin  to  say  what  I  am  saying  ?  Saints 
have  made  vows  ;  true,  but  I  seem  to  be  setting  conditions. 
No ;  God  sees  that  my  intention  is  good,  and  if  I  am  doing 
wrong  He  will  pardon  me,  for  I  desire  to  do  right. 

My  God,  pardon  me  and  take  pity  on  me  ;  ordain  that 
my  vows  may  be  fulfilled  ! 


1876.]         JOURNAL  Of  MAR1&  BA&8K1RTS&FP.  37 

Holy  Mary,  it  is  perhaps  stupid  of  me,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  you,  as  a  woman,  are  more  merciful,  more  indulgent ; 
take  me  under  your  protection,  and  I  will  make  a  vow  to 
devote  a  tenth  of  my  revenue  to  all  manner  of  good  works. 
If  I  do  wrong,  it  is  without  meaning  it.  Pardon  ! 


1876. 

ROME,  Saturday,  January  i. — Oh,  Nice,  Nice!  Is  there, 
after  Paris,  a  more  beautiful  city  than  Nice?  Paris  and 
Nice,  Nice  and  Paris.  France,  nothing  but  France.  In 
France  only  does  one  live. 

The  question  now  is  to  study,  since  that  is  what  I  am  in 
Rome  for.  Rome  does  not  produce  on  me  the  effect  of 
Rome.  Is  Rome  an  agreeable  place?  May  I  not  deceive 
myself?  Is  it  possible  to  live  in  any  other  city  than  Nice? 
To  pass  through  other  cities,  to  visit  them,  yes;  but  to  live 
in  them,  no! 

Bah !  I  shall  become  accustomed  to  it. 

I  am  here  like  a  poor  transplanted  flower.  I  look  out 
of  the  window,  and  instead  of  the  Mediterranean  I  see  grimy 
houses;  I  look  out  of  the  other  window,  and  instead  of  the 
(bateau  I  see  the  corridor  of  the  hotel. 

It  is  a  bad  thing  to  acquire  habits,  and  to  hate  change. 

}VtJnesi1a\\  Januaiy  9. — I  have  seen  the  facade  of  St. 
Peter's;  it  is  superb.  I  was  enchanted  with  it,  especially 
with  the  colonnade  to  the  left,  because  there  no  other 
building  intercepts  the  view,  and  these  columns,  with  the 
sky  for  a  background,  produce  the  most  ravishing  effect. 
One  might  fancy  one's-self  in  ancient  Greece. 

The  bridge  and  fort  of  St.  Angelo  are  also  after  my  own 
ideas. 


3^  JOURNAL  OF  MARtE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

And  the  Coliseum ! 

What  remains  for  me  to  say  of  it,  after  Byron? 

Friday,  January  14. — At  eleven  o'clock  my  painting- 
master,  Katorbinsky,  a  young  Pole,  came,  bringing  with  him 
a  model — a  real  Christ-face,  if  the  lines  and  the  shadows 
were  a  little  softened.  Katorbinsky  told  me  he  always  took 
him  for  his  model  when  he  wished  to  paint  a  Christ. 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  a  little  frightened  when  I  was 
told  to  draw  from  nature,  all  at  once,  in  this  way,  without 
any  previous  preparation.  I  took  the  charcoal  and  bravely 
drew  the  outlines:  "Very  good,"  said  my  master.  "Now 
do  the  same  thing  with  the  brush."  I  took  the  brush  and 
did  as  he  told  me. 

"Good,"  said  he  once  more;  "now  work  it  up." 

And  I  worked  it  up,  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour  and  a  half 
it  was  all  finished. 

My  unhappy  model  had  not  budged,  and,  as  for  me,  I 
could  not  believe  my  eyes.  With  Binsa  two  or  three  lessons 
were  necessary  to  draw  the  outlines  and  copy  a  picture,  and 
here  was  the  whole  thing  done  at  once,  after  nature — out- 
line, coloring,  and  background.  I  am  satisfied  with  myself, 
and,  if  I  say  this  it  is  because  I  deserve  it.  I  am  severe  and 
hard  to  please,  especially  where  I  myself  am  concerned. 

Nothing  is  lost  in  the  world.  Where,  then,  does  love  go? 
Every  created  being,  every  individual,  is  endowed  with  an 
equal  portion  of  this  force  or  fluid  at  his  birth;  only  that  he 
seems  to  have  more  or  less  of  it  according  to  his  constitu- 
tion, his  character,  and  his  circumstances.  Every  human 
being  loves  always,  but  not  always  the  same  object;  when 
he  seems  to  love  no  one,  the  force  goes  toward  God,  or 
toward  nature,  in  words,  in  writings,  or  simply  in  sighs  or 
thoughts. 

Now  there  are  persons  who  eat,  drink,  laugh,  and  do 
nothing  else:  with  these  the  force  is  either  absorbed  by  the 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  39 

animal  instinct,  or  dissipated  among  men  and  things  in  gen- 
eral; and  thise  are  the  persons  who  are  called  good-natured, 
and  who,  generally  speaking,  are  incapable  of  the  passion  of 
love.  There  are  persons  who  love  no  one,  it  is  sometimes 
said.  This  is  not  true;  they  always  Idve  some  one,  but  in  a 
different  manner  from  others — in  a  manner  peculiarly  their 
own.  But  there  are  still  other  unhappy  persons,  who  really 
love  no  one,  because  they  have  loved,  and  love  no  longer? 
Another  error!  They  love  no  longer,  it  is  said.  Why,  then, 
do  they  suffer?  Because  they  still  love,  and  think  they  love 
no  longer,  either  because  of  disappointed  affection,  or  the 
loss  of  the  beloved  object. 

Thursday,  January  20. — To-day  Facciotti  made  me  sing 
all  my  notes.  He  was  struck  with  admiration.  As  for  me, 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself  for  joy;  my  voice,  my 
treasure,  my  dream,  that  is  to  cover  me  with  glory  on  the 
stage!  This  is  for  me  as  great  a  destiny  as  to  become  a 
princess. 

Tuesday,  February  15. —  .  .  .  Rossi  came  to  see  us 

to-day.  My  mother  asked  him  who  A was.  "He  is 

Count  A ,"  replied  Rossi;  "a  nephew  of  the  Cardinal." 

"I  asked  you  who  he  was,"  said  my  mother,  "because  he 
reminds  me  very  much  of  my  son." 

"He  is  a  charming  fellow,"  returned  Rossi;  "he  is  alittle 
passarelh /  sprightly  and  full  of  intelligence,  and  he  is  very 
handsome." 

Friday,  Pebruary  18. — There  was  a  grand  masked  ball  at 
the  Capitol  to-night.  Dina,  my  mother,  and  I  went  there 
at  eleven  o'clock.  I  wore  no  domino:  I  was  dressed  in  a 
close-fitting  gown  of  black  silk,  with  a  train,  a  tunic  of 
black  gauze  trimmed  with  silver  lace,  light  gloves,  a  rose 
and  some  lilies  of  the  valley  in  my  corsage.  It  was  charm- 
ing; consequently  our  entrance  produced  an  immense  effect. 


4°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

A has  a  perfectly  beautiful  countenance;  he  has  a 

pale  complexion,  black  eyes,  a  long  and  regular  nose,  beau- 
tiful ears,  a  small  mouth,  very  passable  teeth,  and  the  mus- 
tache of  a  young  man  of  twenty-three.  I  treated  him  by 
turns  as  a  young  fqp,  as  a  deceitful  fellow,  as  unhappy,  as 
audacious;  and  he  told  me  in  return,  in  the  most  serious 
manner  in  the  world,  how  he  had  run  away  from  home  at 
nineteen;  how  he  had  thrown  himself  head-foremost  into 
the  pleasures  of  life;  how  blase  he  is;  how  he  has  never 
loved,  etc. 

"How  many  times  have  you  been  in  love?"  he  asked  me. 

"Twice." 

"Oh!   oh!" 

"Perhaps  even  oftener." 

"I  should  like  to  be  the  oftener" 

"Presumptuous  man!     Tell  me,  why  has  every  one  taken 
me  for  that  lady  there  in  white?" 

"Because  you  resemble  her.     That  is  why  I  am  with  you. 
I  am  madly  in  love  with  her." 

"  It  is  not  very  amiable  of  you  to  say  so." 

"  What  would  you  have  !     It  is  the  truth." 

"  You  look  at  her  enough.     She  is  evidently  pleased  by  it, 
for  she  is  posing." 

"  Never  !     She  never  poses ;  you  may  say  anything  else 
of  her  but  that  !  " 

"  It  is  easily  seen  that  you  are  in  love." 
.    "I  am — with  you  ;  you  resemble  her." 

"  Oh  !     I  have  a  much  better  figure." 

"  No  matter.     Give  me  a  flower." 

I  gave  him  a  flower,  and   he  gave  me  a  spray  of  ivy  in 
return.     His  accent  and  his  languishing  air  irritated  me. 

"  You  have  the  air  of  a  priest.     It  it   true  that  you  are 
going  to  be  ordained  ?"  I  said. 

He  laughed. 

"I  detest  priests  ;  I  have  been  a  soldier." 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  B A SHKIRTSEFF.  41 

"  You  !  you  have  never  been  anywhere  but  at  the  sem- 
inary." 

"I  hate  the  Jesuits  ;  that  is  why  I  am  always  at  odds 
with  my  family." 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  are  ambitious,  you  would  like  to 
have  people  kiss  your  slipper." 

"  What  an  adorable  little  hand  !  "  he  cried,  kissing  my 
hand — an  operation  he  repeated  several  times  in  the  course 
of  the  evening. 

"  Why  did  you  begin  so  badly  with  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Because  I  took  you  for  a  Roman,  and  I  hate  that  kind 
of  woman." 

Wednesday,  Febniary  23. — Looking  down  from  the  bal- 
cony, I  saw  A ,  who  saluted  me.  Dina  threw  him  a 

bouquet,  and  a  dozen  arms  were  stretched  out  to  seize  it  as 

it  fell.  One  man  succeeded  in  catching  it  ;  but  A , 

with  the  utmost  sang  froid,  caught  him  by  the  throat,  and 
held  him  in  his  strong  grasp  until  the  wretch  let  go  his  prey. 
It  was  so  beautifully  done  that  A looked  almost  sub- 
lime. I  was  carried  away  by  my  enthusiasm,  and  forgetting 
my  blushes,  and  blushing  anew,  I  threw  him  a  camellia  ;  he 
caught  it,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  disappeared. 

You  will  laugh,  perhaps,  at  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you, 
but  I  will  tell  it  to  you  all  the  same. 

Well,  then,  by  an  action  like  this  a  man  might  make  him- 
self loved  by  a  woman  at  once.  His  air  was  so  calm  while 
he  was  strangling  the  villain  that  it  took  my  breath  away. 

Monday,  February  28. — On  going  out  into  the  balcony  on 
the  Corso  I  found  all  our  neighbors  at  their  posts,  and  the 
Carnival  going  on  with  great  animation.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "But  what  do  you  do  with  yourself?"  said  A , 

with  his  calm,  sweet  air.  "  You  do  not  go  to  the  theater." 

"  I  was  ill  ;  I  have  a  sore  finder." 


42  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

"  Where  ?  "  (and  he  wanted  to  take  my  hand.)  "  Do  you 
know  that  I  went  every  evening  to  the  Apollo,  and  remained 
only  for  five  minutes  or  so  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Why  ? "  he  repeated,  looking  me  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"  Yes,  why  ?  " 

"Because  I  went  there  to  see  you,  and  you  were  not 
there." 

He  said  a  great  many  other  things  of  the  same  kind, 
accompanied  with  tender  glances,  to  my  great  amusement. 

He  has  adorable  eyes,  especially  where  he  does  not  open 
them  too  wide.  His  eyelids,  covering  a  quarter  of  the 
pupil,  give  his  eyes  an  expression  that  makes  my  heart 
beat,  and  my  head  grow  dizzy. 

March. — At  three  o'clock  we  were  at  the  Porta  del  Po- 

polo.  Debeck,  Plowden,  and  A met  us  there,  and  A 

helped  me  to  mount  my  horse,  and  we  set  off. 

My  riding-habit  is  of  black  cloth,  and  made  in  a  single 
piece  by  Laferriere,  so  that  it  has  nothing  of  the  English 
stiffness,  nor  of  the  scantiness  of  riding-habits  in  general. 
It  is  a  princesse  robe,  closely  fitting — everywhere. 

"  How  chic  you  are  on  horseback,"  said  A . 

Plowden  annoyed  me  by  wanting  to  be  continually  at  my 
side. 

Once  alone  with  the  Cardinalino  the  conversation  natur- 
ally turned  on  love. 

"  Eternal  love  is  the  tomb  of  love,"  said  he  ;  "one  should 
love  for  a  day,  then  make  a  change." 

"  A  charming  idea  !  It  is  from  your  uncle  the  Cardinal 
you  have  learned  it,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

Tuesday,  March  8. — I  put  on  my  riding-habit,  and  at  five 
o'clock  we  were  at  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  where  the  Cardi- 


1876.]         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK'IRTSEFF.  43 

nalino  was  waiting  for  us  with  two  horses.  Mamma  and 
Dina  followed  in  a  carriage. 

"  Let  us  ride  in-  this  direction,"  said  my  cavalier. 

"  Let  us  do  so." 

And  we  entered  a  sort  of  field — a  green  and  pretty  place 
called  La  Farnesina.  He  began  his  declarations  again, 
saying  : 

"  I  am  in  despair." 

"What  is  despair  ?" 

"It  is  when  a  man  desires  a  thing  and  cannot  have  it." 

"  You  desire  the  moon  ?  " 

"  No,  the  sun." 

"Where  is  it?"  I  said,  looking  around  the  horizon.  "It 
has  set,  I  think." 

"  No,  it  is  shining  upon  me  now  ;  you  are  it." 

"  Bah  !  bah  !  " 

"  I  have  never  loved  before,  I  hate  women — " 

"  And  as  soon  as  you  saw  me  you  loved  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  very  instant — the  first  evening  I  saw  you,  at 
the  theater." 

"You  told  me  that  had  passed  away." 

"  I  was  jesting." 

"  How  can  I  tell  when  you  are  jesting,  and  when  you  are 
in  earnest?  " 

"  That  is  easy  to  be  seen." 

"  True  ;  one  can  almost  always  tell  when  a  person  is 
speaking  the  truth,  but  you  inspire  me  with  no  confidence, 
and  your  fine  ideas  regarding  love  with  still  less." 

"  What  are  my  ideas  ?  I  love  you  and  you  will  not  believe 
it.  Ah,"  said  he,  biting  his  lips,  and  giving  me  a  side 
glance,  "  then  I  am  nothing,  I  can  do  nothing." 

"  Yes,  play  the  hypocrite,"  said  I,  laughing. 

"The  hypocrite  !"  he  cried,  growing  furious.  "Always 
the  hypocrite  ;  that  is  what  you  think  of  me  !  " 

"  How  can  one  help  admiring  you  ?  "  he  said,  looking  at 


44  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

me  fixedly,  a  little  further  on  ;  "You  are  beautiful,  only  I 
think  you  have  no  heart." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  assure  you  I  have  an  excellent  heart." 

"  You  have  an  excellent  heart,  and  you  don't  want  to  fall 
in  love." 

"  That  depends." 

"You  are  a  spoiled  child  ;  am  I  not  right?  " 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  spoiled  ?  I  am  not  ignorant ;  I 
am  good  ;  the  only  thing  is  I  have  a  bad  temper." 

"  I  have  a  bad  temper,  too  :  I  am  passionate  ;  I  can  get 
furiously  angry  ;  I  want  to  correct  these  faults. — Shall  we 
jump  that  ditch  ?" 

"  No." 

And  I  rode  across  the  little  bridge,  while  he  jumped  the 
ditch. 

"  Let  us  canter  toward  the  carriage,"  he  said,  "  we  have 
finished  the  descent." 

I  put  my  horse  into  a  trot,  but  a  few  paces  from  the  car- 
riage he  began  to  gallop.  I  turned  to  the  right.  A — 
followed  me,  my  horse  galloping  rapidly.  I  tried  to  hold 
him  in,  but  he  dashed  forward  madly  ;  I  had  lost  control  of 
him  ;  there  was  an  open  space  in  front  ;  my  hair  fell  down 
on  my  shoulders,  my  hat  dropped  on  the  ground.  I  could 

hear  A behind  me  ;  I  felt  what  they  must  be  suffering 

in  the  carriage.  I  had  a  mind  to  jump  to  the  ground,  but 
the  horse  flew  on  like  an  arrow.  "  It  is  stupid  to  be  killed 
in  this  way,"  I  thought — I  had  no  longer  any  strength. 
"  They  must  save  me  !  " 

"  Hold  him  in  !  "    cried   A. who  could  not  catch  up 

with  me. 

"  I  cannot,"  I  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

My  arms  trembled  ;  an  instant  more  and  I  should  have 
lost  consciousness  ;  just  then  he  came  close  to  me  and 
gave  my  horse  a  blow  across  the  head  with  his  whip  ;  I 
seized  his  arm,  as  much  to  touch  him  as  to  stop  myself. 


1876.]         JOL'RXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  45 

I  looked  at  him  ;  he  was  pale  as  death  ;  never  had  I  seen 
a  countenance  so  full  of  emotion  ! 

"  God  !  "  he  said,  "  how  you  have  made  me  suffer  ! " 

"  Ah,  yes,  but  for  you  I  should  have  fallen  ;  I  could  hold 
the  reins  no  longer.  Now  it  is  over — well,  that  is  good." 
I  added,  trying  to  laugh.  "  Let  some  one  give  me  my  hat !  " 

Dina  had  got  out  of  the  carriage,  which  we  now  approached. 
Mamma  was  beside  herself  with  terror,  but  she  said  nothing 
to  me.  She  knew  that  something  was  the  matter,  and  did 
not  wish  to  annoy  me. 

"  We  will  return  slowly,  step  by  step,  to  the  Porta  del 
Popolo,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  " 

"  How  you  frightened  me  !  And  you — were  you  not 
afraid  ?  " 

"  No,  I  assure  you,  no." 

"  Oh,  but  you  were — I  could  see  it." 

"  It  was  nothing — nothing  at  all." 

And  in  a  second  more  we  were  declining  the  verb  "  to 
love,"  in  all  its  moods  and  tenses  ;  he  told  me  everything, 
from  the  first  evening  he  had  seen  me  at  the  opera,  when, 
observing  Rossi  leaving  our  box,  he  left  his  own  to  go  meet 
him. 

When  we  returned  home  I  took  off  my  habit,  threw  on  a 
wrapper,  and  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  tired,  charmed,  con- 
fused. I  could  remember  nothing  clearly  at  first,  of  all 
that  had  taken  place  ;  it  took  me  a  couple  of  hours  to  get 
together  what  you  have  just  read.  I  should  be  at  the 
height  of  joy  if  I  believed  him,  but  notwithstanding  his  air 
of  sincerity,  of  candor  even,  I  doubt  him.  This  is  what  it 
is  to  be  "  canaille"  one's-self.  And  besides  it  is  better  that  it 
should  be  so. 

Tuesday,  March  4. —  .  .  .  To-day  we  leave  the  Hotel  de 
Londres ;  we  have  taken  a  large  and  handsome  apartment 


46  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

on  the  first  floor,  in  the  Hotel  della  via  Babuina — consisting 
of  an  ante-chamber,  a  large  drawing-room,  a  small  drawing- 
room,  four  bed-rooms,  a  studio,  and  servants'  rooms. 

Saturday,  March  18. — I  have  never  yet  had  a  moment's 

tete-a  tete  with  Pietro  A ;  this  vexes  me.  I  love  to  hear 

him  tell  me  that  he  loves  me.  When  he  has  told  it  to  me  over 
and  over  again,  I  rest  my  elbows  on  the  table  and  think  with 
my  head  between  my  hands.  Perhaps  I  am  in  love  with  him. 
It  is  when  I  am  tired  and  half-asleep  that  I  think  I  love 
Pietro.  Why  am  I  vain  ?  Why  am  I  ambitious  ?  Why  do 
I  reason  coldly  about  my  emotions  ?  I  cannot  make  up  my 
mind  to  sacrifice  to  a  moment's  happiness  whole  years  of 
greatness  and  satisfied  ambition. 

"  Yes,"  say  the  romance-writers,  "but  that  moment's  hap- 
piness is  sufficient  to  brighten  by  its  splendor  an  entire  life- 
time." Oh,  no  ;  to-day  I  am  cold,  and  in  love  ;  to-morrow 
I  shall  be  warm,  and  in  love  no  longer.  See  on  what  changes 
of  temperature  the  destinies  of  men  depend. 

When  he  was  going  A kept  my  hand  in  his  while  he 

said  good-night,  and  asked  me  a  dozen  questions,  afterward, 
to  defer  the  moment  of  our  parting. 

I  told  all  this  immediately  to  mamma.  I  tell  her  every- 
thing. 

Friday,  March  24  ;  Saturday,  March  25. — A came  a 

quarter  of  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  to-day ;  he  looked 
pale,  interesting,  sorrowful,  and  calm.  When  Fortune  an- 
nounced him,  I  clothed  myself  at  once  from  head  to  foot  in 
an  armor  of  cold  politeness  such  as  a  woman  uses  when  she 
wishes  to  make  a  man  in  his  position  angry. 

I  let  him  spend  ten  minutes  with  mamma  before  going  in. 
Poor  fellow  !  he  is  jealous  of  Plowden !  What  an  ugly 
thing  it  is  to  be  in  love  ! 

"  I  had  sworn  not  to  come  again  to  see  you,"  he  said. 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  47 

"  Why  have  you  come,  then  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  rude  toward  your  mother,  who  is 
so  amiable  to  me,  if  I  stayed  away." 

"  If  that  is  the  reason,  you  may  go  away  novs,  and  not 
come  back  again.  Good-by." 

"  No,  no,  no,  it  is  on  your  account." 

"  Well,  that  is  different." 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  have  committed  a  great  mistake,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  know  it." 

"  What  mistake  ?  " 

"  That  of  giving  you  to  understand — of  telling  you — " 

"What?" 

"  That  I  love  you,"  he  said,  with  a  contraction  of  the  lips, 
as  if  he  found  it  hard  to  keep  from  crying. 

"  That  was  not  a  mistake." 

"  It  was  a  great — a  very  great — mistake  ;  because  you 
play  with  me  as  if  I  were  a  ball  or  a  doll." 

"What  an  idea!" 

"  Oh,  I  am  well  aware  that  that  is  your  character.  You 
love  to  amuse  yourself ;  well,  then,  amuse  yourself ;  it  is 
my  own  fault." 

"  Let  us  amuse  ourselves  together." 

"  Then  it  was  not  to  dismiss  me  that  you  told  me  at  the 
theater  to  leave  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  It  was  not  to  get  rid  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  need  to  make  use  of  a  stratagem,  Monsieur, 
when  I  want  to  get  rid  of  any  one.  I  do  it  quite  simply, 
as  I  did  with  B ." 

"  Ah,  and  you  told  me  that  was  not  true." 

"  Let  us  speak  of  something  else.' 

He  rested  his  cheek  against  my  hand. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  not  the  least  bit  in  the  world." 

He  did  not  believe  a  word  of  it.     At  this  moment  Dina 


48  JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

and  mamma  entered  the  room,  and  at  the  end  of  a  few 
minutes  he  left. 

Monday,  March  27. — In  the  evening  we  had  visitors, 

among  others  A .  I  think  he  has  spoken  to  his  father, 

and  that  his  communication  has  not  been  well  received.  I 
cannot  decide  upon  anything.  I  am  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
condition  of  affairs,  and  I  would  not  for  anything  in  all 
the  world  consent  to  go  live  in  another  family.  Am  I  not 
extremely  sensible  for  a  girl  of  my  age? 

"  I  will  follow  you  wherever  you  go,"  he  said  to  me  the 
other  evening. 

"  Come  to  Nice,"  I  said  to  him  to-day.  He  remained 
with  bent  head,  without  answering,  which  proves  to  me  that 
he  has  spoken  to  his  father.  I  do  not  understand  it ;  I 
love  him  and  I  do  not  love  him. 

Monday,  March  30. — To-day  Visconti  spoke  to  mamma 
about  A 's  attentions.  .  . 

"  Pietro  A is  a  charming  young  man,"  he  ended, "  and 

will  be  very  rich,  but  the  Pope  interferes  in  all  the  affairs  of 
the  A 's,  and  the  Pope  will  make  difficulties." 

"But  why  do  you  say  all  that?  "  mamma  answered  ;  "there 
is  no  question  of  marriage.  I  love  the  young  man  like  a 
son,  but  not  as  a  future  son-in-law." 

It  would  be  well  to  leave  Rome,  the  more  so  as  nothing 
will  be  lost  by  putting  off  the  matter  till  next  winter.  .  .  . 

What  irritates  me  is  that  the  opposition  does  not  come 

from  our  side  but  from  the  side  of  the  A 's.  This  is 

hateful,  and  my  pride  revolts  against  it. 

Let  us  leave  Rome. 

In  the  evening  Pietro  A came.  We  received  him 

very  coldly  in  consequence  of  the  Baron  Visconti's  words, 
and  our  own  suspicions  ;  for,  except  the  words  of  Visconti, 
all  the  rest  is  only  suspicion. 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  49 

"  To-morro\v,"  said  Pietro,  after  a  few  moments,  "  I  leave 
Rome." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  To  Terracina.     I  shall  remain  there  a  week,  I  think." 

"  They  are  sending  him  away,"  said  mamma  to  me  in 
Russian. 

I  had  said  the  same  thing  to  myself,  but  what  a  humilia- 
tion !  I  was  ready  to  cry  with  rage. 

"  Yes,  it  is  disagreeable,"  I  replied  in  the  same  language. 

When  we  were, alone  I  attacked  the  question  bravely, 
though  with  some  nervousness. 

"  Why  are  you  leaving  Rome  ?     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

Well,  if  you  think  he  answered  those  questions  as  plainly 
as  I  put  them,  you  are  mistaken. 

I  continued  to  question  him,  and  he  evaded  answering. 

...  I  wanted  to  know  all,  at  any  cost.  This  state  of 
disquiet  and  suspicion  made  me  too  miserable. 

"  Well,  monsieur,"  I  said,  "you  wish  me  to  love  a  man  of 
whom  I  know  nothing,  who  conceals  everything  from  me  ! 
Speak,  and  I  will  believe  you  !  Speak,  and  I  promise  to  give 
you  an  answer.  Listen  well  to  what  I  say  :  after  you  have 
spoken,  I  promise  to  give  you  an  answer." 

"  But  you  will  laugh  at  me,  mademoiselle,  if  I  tell  you.     It 
is  so  great  a  secret  that  if  I  tell  it  to  you  there  will  be  noth- 
ing left  for  me  to  conceal.     There  are  things  that  one  can 
tell  no  one." 
'  "  Speak,  I  am  waiting." 

"  I  will  tell  it  to  you,  but  you  will  laugh  at  me." 

"I  swear  to  you  I  will  not." 

After  many  promises  not  to  laugh,  and  not  to  betray  it  to 
any  one,  he  at  last  told  me  the  secret. 

It  seems  that  last  year,  when  he  was  a  soldier  at  Vicenza, 
he  contracted  debts  to  the  amount  of  thirty-four  thousand 
francs.  When  he  returned  home  ten  months  later  he  had  a 
quarrel  with  his  father,  who  refused  to  pay  them.  At  last, 


5°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

a  few  days  ago,  he  pretended  he  was  going  to  leave  the 
house,  saying  that  he  was  badly  treated  at  home.  Then  his 
mother  told  him  that  his  father  would  pay  his  debts,  on 
condition  that  he  would  promise  to  lead  a  sensible  life. 
"And  to  begin,"  she  said,  "and  before  being  reconciled 
with  your  parent,  you  must  be  reconciled  with  God."  He 
had  not  confessed  himself  for  a  long  time  past. 

In  short,  he  is  going  to  retire  for  a  week  to  the  convent  of 
San  Giovanni  and  Paolo,  Monte  Coelio,  near  the  Coliseum. 

I  found  it  hard  enough  to  remain  serious,  I  can  assure 
you.  To  us  all  this  seems  odd,  but  it  is  natural  enough  to 
the  Catholics  of  Rome. 

This,  then,  is  his  secret.  .  .  . 

Next  Sunday,  at  two  in  the  afternoon,  lam  to  be  in  front 
of  the  convent,  and  he  will  show  himself  at  the  window, 
pressing  a  white  handkerchief  to  his  lips. 

After  he  went  away  I  ran  to  soothe  mamma's  wounded 
pride,  by  telling  her  all  this  ;  but  with  a  smile,  so  as  not  to 
appear  as  if  I  were  in  love  with  him. 

Friday,  Marckzi- —  •  •  •  •  Poor  Pietro  in  a  cassock,  shut  up 
in  a  cell,  with  four  sermons  a  day,  a  mass,  vespers,  matins — 
I  cannot  accustom  myself  to  so  strange  an  idea. 

My  God,  do  not  punish  me  for  my  vanity.  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  am  good  at  heart,  incapable  of  cowardice  or  baseness. 
I  am  ambitious — that  is  my  greatest  fault !  The  beauties 
and  the  ruins  of  Rome  make  me  dizzy.  I  should  like  to  be 
Cassar,  Augustus,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Nero,  Caracalla,  Satan, 
the  Pope  !  I  should  like  to  be  all  these — and  I  am  nothing. 

But  I  am  always  myself  ;  you  may  convince  yourself  of 
that  by  reading  my  diary.  The  details  and  the  shading  of 
the  picture  change,  but  the  outlines  are  always  the  same. 

Wednesday,  April  5. —  ....  I  paint  and  I  read,  but  that 
is  not  enough.  For  a  vain  creature  like  me  it  is  best  to 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  51 

devote  one's-self  entirely  to  painting,  because  that  is  im- 
perishable. 

I  shall  be  neither  a  poet  nor  a  philosopher,  nor  a  savante. 
I  can  be  nothing  more  than  a  singer  and  a  painter.  But 
that  is  always  something.  And  then  I  want  to  be  talked  of 
by  everybody,  which  is  the  principal  thing.  Stern  moralists, 
do  not  shrug  your  shoulders  and  censure  me  with  an  affected 
indifference  for  worldly  things  because  I  speak  in  this  way. 
If  you  were  more  just  you  would  confess  that  you  yourselves 
are  the  same  at  heart  !  You  take  very  good  care  not  to  let 
it  be  seen,  but  that  does  not  prevent  you  from  knowing  in 
your  inmost  souls  that  I  speak  the  truth. 

Vanity  !     Vanity  !     Vanity  ! 

The  beginning  and  the  end  of  all  things,  and  the  eternal 
and  sole  cause  of  all  things.  That  which  does  not  spring 
from  vanity  springs  from  passion.  Vanity  and  passion  are 
the  sole  masters  of  the  world. 

Friday,  April  7. — I  liv"  in  torture  !  Oh,  how  expressive 
is  the  Russian  saying,  "  To  have  a  cat  in  one's  heart  "  !  I 
have  a  cat  hidden  in  my  heart.  It  makes,  me  suffer  incredi- 
bly to  think  it  possible  that  a  man  I  care  for  should  not 
love  me. 

Pietro  has  not  come  ;  he  left  the  convent  only  this  even- 
ing. I  saw  his  clerical  and  hypocritical  brother,  Paul 

A ,  to-day.  There  is  a  creature  to  be  crushed  under 

foot — little,  black,  sallow,  vile,  hypocritical  Jesuit  ! 

If  the  affair  of  the  monastery  be  true  he  must  know  of  it, 
and  how  he  must  laugh  with  his  mean,  cunning  air  as  he 
relates  it  to  his  friends  !  Pietro  and  Paul  cannot  abide 
each  other. 

Sunday,  April  9. — I  have  been  to  confession  and  received 
absolution,  and  now  I  fly  into  a  passion  and  swear.  A  cer- 
tain amount  of  sin  is  as  necessary  to  a  man's  existence,  as 


5  2  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

a  certain  volume  of  air  is  to  sustain  life.  .Why  are  men 
attached  to  this  earth  ?  Because  the  weight  of  their  con- 
science drags  them  down.  If  their  conscience  were  pure, 
men  would  be  too  light  to  keep  their  footing  on  this  planet, 
and  would  soar  up  to  the  skies  like  little  red  balloons. 

There  is  a  fantastic  theory  for  you  !     No  matter  ! 

And  Pietro  does  not  come. 

Monday,  April  10. — They  have  shut  him  up  forever.  No, 
only  for  the  time  I  am  to  remain  in  Rome. 

To-morrow  I  go  to  Naples  ;  they  cannot  have  foreseen 
this  trick.  Besides,  once  he  is  released,  he  will  come  in 
search  of  me.  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  whether  to  think  him  a  worthless  fellow,  a 
coward,  or  a  child  whom  they  tyrannize  over.  I  am  quite 
calm,  but  sad.  It  is  only  necessary  to  look  at  things  from 
a  certain  point  of  view,  mamma  says,  in  order  to  see  that 
nothing  in  the  world  is  of  any  consequence.  I  am  in  com- 
plete accord  with  madame,  my  mother,  as  to  this,  but  to  be 
able  to  judge  what  that  point  of  view  is  in  the  present  in- 
stance, I  must  first  know  the  exact  truth.  All  that  I  now 
know  is  that  this  is  a  strange  adventure. 

Tuesday,  April  18. — At  noon  to-day  we  set  out  for  Pom- 
peii ;  we  are  to  make  the  journey  in  a  carriage,  as  we  pass 
through  a  beautiful  country  and  can  thus  enjoy  the  view  of 
Vesuvius  and  of  the  cities  of  Castellamare  and  Sorrento. 

I  overheard  mamma  speaking  of  marriage. 

"Woman  is  made  to  suffer,"  she  said,  "even  if  she  has 
the  best  of  husbands." 

"  Woman  before  marriage,"  I  said,  "  is  Pompeii  before 
the  eruption  ;  and  woman  after  marriage  is  Pompeii  after 
the  eruption." 

It  may  be  that  I  am  right  ! 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  B.I SHKIRTSEFF.  53 

Wednesday,  April  19. — See  at  what  a  disadvantage  I  am 
placed !  Pietro,  without  me,  has  his  club,  society,  his 
friends — everything,  in  a  word,  except  me  ;  while  I,  without 
Pietro,  have  nothing. 

His  love  forme  is  only  the  occupation  of  his  idle  moments, 
while  mine  for  him  is  everything  to  me.  He  made  me  for- 
get my  ambition  to  play  an  active  part  in  the  world ;  I  had 
ceased  to  think  of  it,  I  thought  only  of  him,  too  happy  to 
escape  thus  from  my  anxieties.  Whatever  I  may  become 
in  the  future,  I  bequeath  my  journal  to  the  world.  I  offer 
you  here  what  no  one  has  ever  yet  seen.  All  the  memories, 
the  journals,  the  letters,  which  are  given  to  the  public  are 
only  inventions  glossed  over,  and  intended  to  deceive  the 
world.  I  have  no  interest  in  deceiving  any  one ;  I  have 
neither  any  political  action  to  gloss  over,  nor  any  unworthy 
action  to  conceal.  No  one  troubles  himself  whether  I  am 
in  love  or  not,  whether  I  weep  or  whether  I  laugh.  My 
chief  anxiety  is  to  express  myself  with  as  much  exactness  as 
possible.  I  do  not  deceive  myself  in  regard  to  my  style  or 
my  orthography.  I  can  write  letters  without  mistakes,  but 
in  this  ocean  of  words,  doubtless,  I  make  a  great  many. 
Besides,  I  am  not  a  Frenchwoman,  and  I  make  mistakes  in 
French.  Yet  if  you  asked  me  to  express  myself  in  my  own 
language  I  should  do  it  still  worse,  perhaps.  • 

ROME,  Monday,  April  24. — I  had  matter  enough  to  keep 
me  writing  all  day,  but  I  have  no  longer  a  clear  idea  of  any- 
thing. I  only  know  that  in  the  Corso  we  met  A ,  that 

he  ran  up  to  the  carriage,  radiant  and  joyous  ;  and  that  he 
asked  if  we  should  be  at  home  in  the  evening.  We  said  we 
should  be,  alas  ! 

He  came,  and  I  went  into  the  drawing-room  and  took 
part  in  the  conversation  quite  naturally  like  the  others.  He 
told  me  he  had  remained  four  days  in  the  convent,  and  that 
he  had  then  gone  to  the  country  ;  that  he  was  at  present  on 


54  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

good  terms  with  his  father  and  mother  ;  and  that  he  was  now 
going  to  be  sensible  and  to  think  of  his  future.  Finally, 
he  said  that  I  had  amused  myself  at  Naples  ;  that  I  had 
been  flirting  there  as  usual,  and  that  this  showed  I  did  not 
love  him.  He  told  me  also  that  he  had  seen  me  the  other 
Sunday  near  the  Convent  San  Giovanni  and  Paolo  ;  and  to 
prove  that  he  spoke  the  truth  he  told  me  how  I  was  dressed 
and  what  I  was  doing  ;  and  I  must  confess  he  was  correct. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?"  he  asked  me  at  last. 

"And  you?" 

"  Ah,  that  is  the  way  with  you  always  ;  you  are  always 
laughing  at  me." 

"  And  what  if  I  should  say  that  I  do  ?  " 

He  is  altogether  changed  ;  in  twenty  days'  time  he  seems 
to  have  become  a  man  of  thirty.  He  speaks  quite  differ- 
ently ;  he  has  become  surprisingly  sensible,  and  has  grown 
as  diplomatic  as  a  Jesuit. 

"  You  know  I  play  the  hypocrite,"  he  said  ;  "  I  bow  down 
before  my  father,  I  agree  to  everything  he  wishes  ;  I  have 
grown  very  sensible,  and  I  think  of  my  future." 

Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  write  more  to-morrow  ;  to-night 
I  am  so  stupid  that  I  cannot. 

Tuesday,  April  25. — "  I  will  come  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
to  pacify  me,  "and  we  will  talk  over  all  this  seriously." 

"  It  is  useless,"  I  said.  "  I  see  now  how  much  I  can  de- 
pend upon  your  fine  professions  of  love.  You  need  not 
come  back,"  I  added  more  faintly.  "You  have  vexed  me  ; 
I  bid  you  good-by  in  anger,  and  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night. 
You  may  boast  of  having  put  me  in  a  rage — go !  " 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  how  unjust  you  are  !  To-morrow 
I  will  speak  with  you  when  you  are  calmer." 

It  is  he  who  complains  ;  it  is  he  who  says  I  have  always 
repulsed  him  ;  that  I  have  always  laughed  at  him  ;  that  I 
have  never  loved  him.  In  his  place  I  should  have  said  the 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRT^EFF.  55 

same  ;  nevertheless,  I  find  him  very  dignified  and  very  self- 
possessed  for  a  man  who  is  really  in  love.  I  know  how  to 
love  better  than  that ;  at  any  rate  I  am  furious,  furious, 
furious  ! 

It  was  still  raining  when  the  Baron  Visconti — who,  not- 
withstanding his  age,  is  both  charming  and  spirituel — was 
announced.  Suddenly,  while  discussing  the  Odescalchi 
marriage,  the  conversation  turned  on  Pietro. 

"  Well,  madame,  the  boy,  as  you  call  him,  is  not  a 
parti  to  be  despised,"  he  said,  "  for  the  poor  Cardinal 
may  die  at  any  moment,  so  that  one  of  these  days  his 
nephews  will  be  millionnaires,  and  Pietro,  consequently,  a 
millionnaire." 

"  Do  you  know,  Baron,  they  tell  me  the  young  man  is 
going  to  enter  the  convent,"  said  mamma. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  I  assure  you  ;  he  is  thinking  of  some- 
thing altogether  different!" 

o  o 

Then  the  talk  turned  on  Rome,  and  I  observed  that  I 
should  be  sorry  to  leave  it. 

"  Remain  here,  then,"  said  the  Baron. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  do  so." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are  fond  of  our  city." 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  said,  "that  they  are  going  to  leave  me 
here  in  a  convent  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Visconti,  "  I  hope  you  will  stay  here  from 
another  reason  than  that.  We  shall  find  the  means, — I 
will  find  them,"  he  said,  pressing  my  hand  warmly. 

Mamma  was  radiant, — I  was  radiant  ;  it  was  quite  an 
aurora  borealis. 

This  evening,  contrary  to  our  expectations,  we  had  a 
great  many  visitors,  among  them  A . 

Our  visitors  were  seated  at  one  table  ;  Pietro  and  I  at 
another.  We  talked  of  love  in  general,  and  Pietro's  love  in 
particular.  His  principles  are  deplorable,  or  rather  he  is 
so  crazy  that  he  has  none.  He  spoke  so  lightly  of  his  love 


5 6  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1876. 

for  me  that  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  And  then  his 
character  is  wonderfully  like  my  own. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  at  the  end  of  five  minutes 
we  were  good  friends  again  ;  everything  was  explained  and 
we  agreed  to  marry ;  he  did,  at  least ;  I  remained  silent  for 
the  most  part. 

"  You  leave  Rome  on  Thursday  ?"*'  he  said. 

"  Yes,  and  you  will  forget  me." 

"  Ah,  no,  indeed  ;  I  am  going  to  Nice." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  can  ;  for  the  present  I  cannot." 

"  Why  not  ?     Tell  me, — tell  me  this  instant  !  " 

"  My  father  will  not  allow  it." 

"  You  have  only  to  tell  him  the  truth." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  tell  him  that  I  go  there  on  your 
account,  that  I  love  you,  and  that  I  wish  to  marry  you — but 
not  yet.  You  do  not  know  my  father.  He  has  only  just 
forgiven  me ;  I  dare  not  ask  anything  more  from  him  for 
the  present." 

"  Speak  to  him  to-morrow." 

"  I  dare  not ;  I  have  not  yet  gained  his  confidence.  Only 
think,  he  had  not  spoken  to  me  for  three  years  ;  we  had 
ceased  to  speak  to  each  other.  In  a  month  I  will  be  at 
Nice." 

"  In  a  month  I  shall  be  no  longer  there." 

"And  where  shall  you  go?" 

"To  Russia.     I  shall  go  away  and  you  will  forget  me." 

"But  I  shall  be  at  Nice  in  a  fortnight,  and  then — and 
then  we  will  go  away  together.  I  love  you,  I  love  you," 
he  ended,  falling  on  his  knees. 

"Are  you  happy?"  I  asked,  pressing  his  head  between 
my  hands. 

''Oh,  yes,  because  I  believe  in  you — I  believe  your 
word." 

"Come  to  Nice,  now,"  I  said. 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  57 

"Ah,  if  I  could!" 

"What  one  wants  to  do,  one  can  do." 

Thursday,  April  27. —  ...  At  the  railway  station  I 
walked  up  and  down  the  platform  with  the  Cardinalino. 

"I  love  you,"  he  cried,  "and  I  shall  always  love  you,  to 
my  misfortune,  it  may  be." 

"And  you  can  see  me  go  away  with  indifference." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that.  You  must  not  speak  so;  you  do 
not  know  what  I  have  suffered.  Since  I  have  known  you  I 
am  completely  changed;  but  you,  you  always  treat  me  as  if 
I  were  the  most  despicable  of  men.  For  you  I  have  broken 
with  the  past;  for  you  I  have  endured  everything;  for  you 
I  have  made  this  peace  with  my  family.  .  .  .  Will  you 
write  to  me?" 

"Don't  ask  too  much,"  I  said  gravely.  "It  is  a  great 
favor  if  a  young  girl  permits  herself  to  be  written  to.  If 
you  don't  know  that,  I  shall  teach  it  to  you.  But  they  are 
entering  the  car.  Let  us  not  lose  time  in  useless  discus- 
sion. Will  you  write  to  me?" 

'  'Yes,  and  all  that  you  can  say  is  of  no  avail.  I  feel  that 
I  love  you  as  I  can  never  love  again.  Do  you  love  me?" 

I  nodded  affirmatively. 

"Will  you  always  love  me?" 

The  same  sign. 

"Good-by,  then." 

"Till  when?" 

"Till  next  year." 

"No!" 

"Come,  come,  good-by." 

And  without  giving  him  my  hand  I  went  into  the  railway 
coach  where  our  people  were  already  seated. 

"You  have  not  shaken  hands  with  me,"  he  said,  ap- 
proaching the  car. 

I  gave  him  my  hand, 


5§  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

"I  love  you!"  he  said,  very  pale. 

"Au  revoir,"  I  answered  softly. 

"Think  of  me  sometimes,"  he  said,  growing  still  paler; 
"as  for  me,  I  shall  do  nothing  else  but  think  of  you." 

"Yes;  au  revvir." 

The  train  started,  and  for  a  few  seconds  I  could  still  see 
him  looking  after  me  with  an  expression  of  deep  emotion 
on  his  countenance;  then  he  walked  a  few  steps  toward  the 
door,  but  as  the  train  was  still  in  view,  he  stopped  again, 
mechanically  crushed  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  took  a 
few  steps  forward,  and  then — then  we  were  already  out  of 
sight. 

NICE,  Friday,  April  28. —  .  .  .  The  house  is  charmingly 
furnished;  my  room  is  dazzling,  all  upholstered  in  sky-blue 
satin.  On  opening  the  window  of  the  balcony  and  looking 
out  on  our  pretty  little  garden,  the  Promenade,  and  the  sea, 
I  could  not  help  saying  aloud : 

"They  may  say  what-  they  will,  but  there  is  no  place  at 
once  so  charmingly  home-like  and  so  adorably  romantic  as 
Nice." 

Sunday,  May  7. — One  finds  a  miserable  satisfaction  in 
having  cause  to  despise  everybody.  At  least  one  no  longer 
cherishes  illusions.  If  Pietro  has  forgotten  me,  I  have  been 
grossly  insulted,  and  there  is  another  name  to  inscribe  on 
the  list  of  those  to  whom  I  owe  hatred  and  revenge. 

Such  as  they  are,  I  am  satisfied  with  my  fellow-beings  and 
I  like  them;  my  interests  are  the  same  as  theirs;  I  live 
among  them,  and  on  them  depend  my  fortune  and  my  hap- 
piness. All  this  is  stupid  enough.  But  in  this  world  what 
is  not  stupid  is  sad,  and  what  is  not  sad  is  stupid. 

To-morrow  at  three  o'clock  I  start  for  Rome,  to  enjoy  the 

gayeties  there,  as  well  as  to  show  A my  contempt  for 

him  if  the  occasion  should  present  itself. 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  59 

ROME,  Thursday,  May  n. —  ...  I  left  Nice  yesterday 
at  two  o'clock,  with  my  aunt.  .  .  .  We  arrived  here  at  two. 
1  took  my  aunt  to  the  Corso.  (What  a  delightful  thing  it 
is  to  see  the  Corso  again  after  Nice!)  Simonetti  came  over 
to  us.  I  presented  him  to  Mme.  Romanoff,  and  told  him  it 
was  by  a  miraculous  chance  I  was  in  Rome. 

I  made  a  sign  to  Pietro  to  come  to  us;  he  was  radiant, 
and  looked  at  me  with  a  glance  that  shows  he  has  taken 
everything  seriously. 

He  made  us  laugh  a  great  deal  telling  us  about  his  sojourn 
in  the  monastery.  He  had  consented,  he  said,  to  go  there 
for  four  days,  and  they  kept  him  for  seventeen. 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  a  falsehood?"  I  asked.  "Why 
did  you  say  you  were  going  to  Terracina?" 

"Because  I  was  ashamed  to  tell  you  the  truth." 

"And  do  your  friends  at  the  club  know  of  it?" 

"Yes;  at  first  I  said  I  had  gone  to  Terracina;  then  they 
asked  me  about  the  monastery,  and  I  ended  by  telling 
them  all  about  it;  I  laughed,  and  everybody  laughed.  Only 
Torlonia  was  furious." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  did  not  tell  him  the  truth  at  first;  because  I 
had  not  confidence  in  him." 

Then  he  told  us  how,  in  order  to  please  his  father,  he 
had  let  a  rosary  fall,  as  if  by  chance,  out  of  his  pocket,  so 
that  it  might  be  thought  he  always  carried  one.  I  said  all 
sorts  of  mocking  and  impertinent  things  to  him,  to  all  of 
which  he  responded,  I  must  say,  with  a  good  deal  of  spirit. 

Saturday \  May  13. — I  feel  unable  to  write  to-night,  and 
yet  something  compels  me  to  write.  So  long  as  I  leave 
anything  unsaid,  something  within  torments  me. 

I  chatted  and  made  tea  to  the  best  of  my  ability  till  half- 
past  ten.  Then  Pietro  arrived.  Simonetti  went  away  soon 
afterward,  and  we  three  were  left  alone.  The  talk  turned 


60  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

on  my  diary,  that  is  to  say,  on  the  questions  I  have  touched 

on  in  it,  and  A asked  me  to  read  him  some  extracts 

from  it  on  God  and  the  soul.  I  went  to  the  antechamber, 
and  knelt  down  beside  the  famous  white  box  to  look  up  the 
passages  while  Pietro  held  the  light.  But  in  doing  so  I 
came  across  others  of  more  general  interest,  and  read  them 
aloud.  And  this  lasted  almost  half  an  hour.  On  returning 

to  the  drawing-room  A began  to  tell  us  all  sorts  of 

anecdotes  of  his  past  life,  from  the  time  he  was  eighteen.  I 
listened  to  everything  he  said  with  something  like  jealousy 
and  terror. 

In  the  first  place,  his  absolute  dependence  upon  his 
family  freezes  my  blood.  If  they  were  to  forbid  him  to 
love  me,  1  am  certain  he  would  obey. 

The  thought  of  the  priests,  the  monks,  terrifies  me,  not- 
withstanding all  he  has  told  me  of  their  piety.  It  frightens 
me  to  hear  of  the  atrocities  they  perpetrate,  of  their  tyranny. 

Yes,  they  make  me  afraid,  and  his  two  brothers  also,  but 
this  is  not  what  most  troubles  me;  I  am  free  to  accept  or  to 
refuse  him.  All  I  heard  to-night  and  the  conclusions  I 
drew  from  it,  taken  in  connection  with  what  has  passed 
between  us,  confuse  my  mind. 

Wednesday,  May  17. — I  had  much  to  write  about  yester- 
day but  it  was  nothing  compared  to  what  I  have  to  write 
about  to-night.  He  spoke  to  me  again  of  his  love.  I  told 
him  it  was  useless;  that  my  family  would  never  consent. 

"They  would  be  right  in  not  doing  so,"  he  said  dreamily. 
"I  could  not  make  any  woman  happy.  I  have  told  my 
mother  everything;  I  spoke  to  her  about  you.  I  said,  'She 
is  so  good  and  so  religious,  while  as  for  me  I  believe  in 
nothing,  I  am  only  a  miserable  creature.'  See,  I  remained 
seventeen  days  in  the  monastery,  I  prayed,  I  meditated,  and 
I  do  not  believe  in  God;  religion  does  not  exist  for  me,  I 
believe  in  nothing." 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  6l 

I  looked  at  him  in  terror. 

"You  must  believe,"  I  said,  taking  his  hand  in  mine; 
"you  must  correct  your  faults;  you  must  be  good." 

"That  is  impossible;  and  as  I  am  no-  one  could  love  me. 
Am  I  not  right?  I  am  very  unhappy,"  he  continued:  "you 
could  never  form  an  idea  of  my  position.  I  am  apparently 
on  good  terms  with  my  family,  but  qnly  apparently.  I  detest 
them  all — my  father,  my  brothers,  my  mother  herself.  I  am 
unhappy;  if  you  ask  me  why,  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  do  not 
know.  Oh,  the  priests!"  he  cried,  clenching  his  fists  and 
grinding  his  teeth  as  he  raised  to  heaven  a  face  hideous  with 
hatred.  "The  priests!  oh,  if  you  knew  what  they  were!" 

It  was  fully  five  minutes  before  he  grew  calm. 

"I  love  you,  however,  and  you  only.  When  I  am  with 
you  I  am  happy,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Give  me  the  proof." 

"Speak." 

"Come  to  Nice." 

"You  put  me  out  of  my  senses  when  you  say  that;  you 
know  that  I  cannot  go." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  my  father  will  not  give  me  the  money  ;  because 
my  father  does  not  wish  me  to  go  to  Nice." 

"  I  understand  that  very  well,  but  if  you  tell  him  why  you 
wish  to  go  ?  " 

"  He  would  still  refuse  his  consent ;  I  have  spoken  to  my 
mother  ;  she  does  not  believe  me.  They  are  so  accustomed 
to  see  me  behave  badly  that  they  no  longer  believe  in  me." 

"  You  must  reform  ;  you  must  come  to  Nice." 

"  But  you  have  told  me  that  I  shall  be  refused." 

"  I  have  not  said  you  would  be  refused  by  me." 

"  Ah,  that  would  be  too  much  happiness,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  me  intently  ;  "  That  would  be  a  dream." 

"  But  a  beautiful  dream  ;  is  it  not  so?  " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  " 


62  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

"  Then  you  will  ask  your  father  to  let  you  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly  ;  but  he  does  not  wish  me  to  marry." 

"  All  is  ended,  then,"  I  said,  drawing  back.  "  Fare- 
well !" 

"  I  love  you  !  " 

"  I  believe  you,"  I  said,  pressing  both  his  hands  in  mine, 
"  and  I  pity  you." 

"  You  will  never  love  me  ?  " 

"When  you  are  free." 

"  When  I  am  dead." 

"  I  cannot  love  you  at  present,  for  I  pity  you,  and  I  de- 
spise you.  If  they  commanded  you  not  to  love  me,  you 
would  obey." 

"Perhaps!" 

"  That  is  frightful !  " 

"  I  love  you,"  he  repeated  for  the  hundredth  time,  and  he 
went  away,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

He  came  back  once  more  and  I  bade  him  farewell. 

"  No,  not  farewell." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  farewell.  I  loved  you  until  this  conversa- 
tion." (1881. — /  never  loved  him  ;  all  this  was  but  the  effect 
of  an  excited  imagination  in  search  of  romance?) 

For  the  past  three  days  I  have  had  a  new  idea — it  is  that 
I  am  going  to  die.  I  cough  and  complain.  The  day  before 
yesterday  I  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  ;  my  aunt  urged  me  to  retire,  but  I  paid  no 
heed  to  her ;  I  said  I  was  convinced  that  I  was  going 
to  die. 

"Ah,"  said  my  aunt,  "  from  the  way  in  which  you  behave 
I  don't  doubt  but  that  you  will  die." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you  ;  you  will  have  less  to 
spend ;  you  will  not  have  to  pay  so  much  to  Laferriere !  " 

And  being  seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing  I  threw  myself 
face  downward  on  the  sofa,  to  the  terror  of  my  aunt,  who 
left  the  room  so  as  to  make  it  appear  that  she  was  angry. 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  63 

Friday,  May  19. —  ...  I  have  just  been  singing,  and 
my  chest  pains  me ;  here  you  see  me  playing  the  role  of 
martyr  !  It  is  too  stupid  !  My  hair  is  dressed  in  the  fashion 
of  the  Capitoline  Venus  :  I  am  in  white,  like  a  Beatrice  ; 
and  I  have  a  rosary  with  a  mother-of-pearl  cross  around  my 
neck.  Say  what  you  will,  there  is  in  man  a  certain  leaning 
toward  idolatry — a  necessity  for  experiencing  physical  sensa- 
tions. God,  in  His  simple  grandeur,  is  not  enough.  One 
must  have  images  to  look  at  and  crosses  to  kiss.  Last  night 
I  counted  the  beads  on  the  rosary  ;  there  were  sixty,  and  I 
prostrated  myself  sixty  times  on  the  ground,  touching  the 
floor  with  my  forehead  each  time  I  did  so.  I  was  quite  out 
of  breath  when  it  was  over,  but  I  thought  I  had  performed 
an  act  agreeable  in  the  sight  of  God.  It  was  no  doubt 
absurd,  but  the  intention  was  there.  Does  God  take  inten- 
tions into  account !  Ah,  but  I  have  here  the  New  Testa- 
ment. Let  me  see. — As  I  could  not  find  the  good  book  I 
read  Dumas  instead.  It  is  not  quite  the  same  thing. 

When  Count  A was  announced  this  evening  I  was 

alone.  .  .  .  My  heart  beat  so  violently  that  I  was  afraid  it 
would  be  heard,  as  they  say  in  novels. 

He  seated  himself  beside  me  and  tried  to  take  my  hand, 
which  I  withdrew  immediately. 

"  I  have  so  many  things  to  say  to  you,"  he  began. 

"Indeed?"  .  .  . 

"  But  serious  things." 

"  Let  us  hear  them."  .  .  . 

"  Listen  :  I  have  spoken  to  my  mother,  and  my  mother 
has  spoken  to  my  father." 

"Well?" 

"  I  have  done  right,  have  I  not  ? " 

"  That  does  not  concern  me  ;  whatever  you  have  done 
you  have  done  to  please  yourself." 

"  You  no  longer  love  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No." 


64  JOURNAL  OF  MARfE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

"And  I,  I  love  you  madly." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,"  I  said,  smiling,  and  allow- 
ing him  to  take  my  hands  in  his. 

"  No,  listen,"  he  said;  "let  us  speak  seriously;  you  are 
never  serious  ;  I  love  you,  I  have  spoken  to  my  mother.  Be 
my  wife  !  " 

"  At  last  !  "  I  thought  to  myself.     But  I  remained   silent. 

"  Well  ? "  he  said. 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  smiling. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  encouraged  by  this,  "  it  is  necessary 
to  take  some  one  into  our  confidence." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  This  :  I  can  do  nothing  myself.  We  must  find  some 
one  who  will  undertake  the  affair — some  one  of  respect- 
ability who  is  serious  and  dignified,  who  will  speak  to  my 
father  and  arrange  the  whole  matter,  in  short.  But  whom?" 

"  Visconti,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  very  seriously,  "  I  had  thought  of 
Visconti ;  he  is  the  man  we  need.  .  .  Only,"  he  resumed, 
"  I  am  not  rich — not  at  all  rich.  Ah,  I  wish  I  were  a  hump- 
back and  had  millions." 

"  You  would  gain  nothing  in  my  eyes  by  that." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  "  he  exclaimed  incredulously. 

"  I  believe  you  wish  to  insult  me,"  I  said,  rising. 

"  No,  I  don't  say  that  on  your  account ;  you  are  an 
exception  to  women." 

"  Then  don't  speak  to  me  of  money." 

"  Heavens,  what  a  creature  you  are  !  One  can  never 
understand  what  you  want.  Consent — consent  to  be  my 
wife  ! " 

He  wished  to  kiss  my  hand  ;  I  held  the  cross  of  the 
rosary  before  him,  which  he  kissed  instead  ;  then  raising 
his  head  : 

"  How  religious  you  arel  "  he  said,  looking  at  me. 

"  And  you,  you  believe  in  nothing?" 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OP  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  65 

"  I  ?    I  love  you  ;  do  you  love  me  ? " 

"  I  don't  say  those  things." 

"  Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,  give  me  to  understand  it,  at 
least." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  I  gave  him  my  hand. 

"  You  consent  ? " 

"  Not  too  fast  !  "  I  said,  rising;  "you  know  there  are  my 
father  and  my  grandfather,  and  they  will  strongly  oppose 
my  marrying  a  Catholic." 

"  Ah,  there  is  that,  too  !  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  that,  too." 

"  He  took  me  by  the  arm  and  made  me  stand  beside  him 
before  the  glass  ;  we  looked  very  handsome  standing  thus 
together. 

"  We  will  give  it  in  charge  to  Visconti,"  said  A . 

"Yes." 

"  He  is  the  man  we  need.  .  .  .  But  we  are  both  so  young 
to  marry  ;  do  you  think  we  shall  be  happy?" 

"  You  must  first  get  my  consent." 

"Of  course.  Well,  then,  if  you  consent,  shall  we  be  happy?" 

"7/1  consent,  I  can  swear  to  you  by  my  head  that  there 
will  be  no  happier  man  in  the  world  than  you." 

"  Then  let  us  be  married.     Be  my  wife." 

I  smiled.  .  .  . 

At  this  moment  voices  were  heard  on  the  staircase,  and  I 
sat  down  quietly  to  wait  for  my  aunt,  who  soon  entered. 

A  great  weight  was  lifted  from  my  heart.  .  .  . 

At  twelve  A rose,  and  bade  me  good-night,  with  a 

warm  pressure  of  the  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  I  answered. 

Our  glances  met,  I  cannot  tell  how,  it  was  like  a  flash  of 
lightning. 

"Well,  aunt,"  I  said,  after  he  had  gone,  "we  leave  early 
to-morrow.  You  retire,  and  I  will  lock  the  door  of  your 

*  Marie  belonged  to  the  Greek  Church,  of  Russia. 


66  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.          [1876. 

room  so  that  I  need  not  disturb  you  by  my  writing,  and  I 
will  soon  go  to  bed." 

"  You  promise  ?  " 

"Certainly." 

I  locked  my  aunt's  door,  and  after  a  glance  at  the  mirror 
went  downstairs,  and  Pietro  glided  like  a  shadow  through 
the  half-open  door. 

"  So  much  may  be  said  without  words  when  one  is  in  love. 
As  for  me,  at  least  I  love  you,"  he  murmured. 

I  amused  myself  by  imagining  this  to  be  a  scene  from  a 
novel,  and  thought  involuntarily  of  the  novels  of  Dumas. 

"  I  leave  to-morrow,"  I  said,  "  and  we  have  so  many  things 
to  talk  seriously  about,  which  I  had  forgotten." 

"  That  is  because  you  no  longer  think  of  anything." 

"  Come,"  I  said,  partly  closing  the  door,  so  that  only  a 
ray  of  light  could  pass  through. 

And  I  sat  down  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  little  stairs  at 
the  end  of  the  passage. 

He  knelt  down  by  my  side. 

I  fancied  at  every  moment  that  I  heard  some  one  coming. 
I  remained  motionless,  and  trembled  at  every  drop  of  rain 
that  fell  on  the  flags. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  my  impatient  lover. 

"  It  is  very  easy  for  you  to  say  that,  monsieur.  If  any 
one  should  come,  it  would  only  flatter  your  vanity,  and  I — 
should  be  lost." 

With  head  thrown  back  I  looked  at  him  through  my  half- 
closed  lids. 

'"Through  me  ?  n  he  said,  misunderstanding  the  mean- 
ing of  my  words.  "  I  love  you  too  much  ;  you  are  safe 
with  me." 

I  gave  him  my  hand,  on  hearing  these  noble  words. 

"  Have  I  not  always  shown  my  consideration  and  respect 
for  you  ? "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  not  always.     Once  you  even  wanted  to  kiss  me." 


1876.]          JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  67 

"  Don't  speak  of  that,  I  entreat  you.  I  have  begged  your 
forgiveness  for  it  so  often.  Be  good  and  forgive  me." 

"  I  have  forgiven  you,"  I  said  softly. 

I  felt  so  happy  !  Is  this  what  it  is  to  be  in  love,  I  thought  ? 
Is  it  serious?  I  thought  every  moment  he  was  going  to 
laugh,  he  looked  so  grave  and  tender. 

I  lowered  my  glance  before  the  extraordinary  intensity 
of  his. 

"  But  see,  we  have  again  forgotten  our  affairs.  Let  us  be 
serious,  and  talk  of  them." 

"  Yes,  let  us  talk  of  them. 

"  In  the  first  place,  what  are  we  to  do  if  you  go  away  to- 
morrow ?  Stay  !  I  entreat  you,  stay  !  " 

"  Impossible  ;  my  aunt — " 

"  She  is  so  good  !     Oh,  stay  !  " 

"  She  is  good,  but  she  will  not  consent  to  that.  Good-by, 
then,  perhaps  forever  !  " 

"  No,  no  ;  you  have  consented  to  be  my  wife." 

"  When  ? " 

"  Toward  the  end  of  the  month  I  will  be  at  Nice.  If 
you  consent  to  my  borrowing,  I  will  go  to-morrow." 

"  No,  I  will  not  have  that ;  I  would  never  see  you  again 
in  that  case."  .  .  . 

"Advise  me;  you,  who  reason  like  a  book,  advise  me 
what  to  do." 

"  Pray  to  God,"  I  said,  holding  my  cross  before  him  ; 
ready  to  laugh  if  he  ridiculed  my  advice,  or  to  maintain  my 
air  of  gravity  if  he  took  it  seriously.  He  saw  my  impassive 
countenance,  pressed  the  cross  against  his  forehead,  and 
bent  his  head  in  prayer. 

"  I  have  prayed,"  he  said. 

"Truly?" 

"  Truly.  But  let  us  continue.  We  will  entrust  the  whole 
affair  to  Baron  Visconti  then." 

"  Very  well." 


68  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHtflR'TSEFF.          [1876. 

I  said  "  Very  well,"  and  thought  "  CONDITIONALLY." 

"  But  all  that  cannot  be  done  immediately,"  I  resumed. 

"  In  two  months." 

"Are  you  jesting?"  I  asked,  as  if  what  he  suggested 
were  the  most  impossible  thing  in  the  world. 

"  In  six  months,  then?" 

"  No." 

"  In  a  year." 

"  Yes,  in  a  year  ;  will  you  wait  ?  " 

*'  If  I  must — on  condition  that  I  shall  see  you  every 
day." 

"Come  to  Nice,  for  in  a  month  I  go  to  Russia." 

"  I  will  follow  you." 

"  You  cannot." 

"  And  why  not  ?  " 

"My  mother  would  not  allow  it." 

"  No  one  can  prevent  my  traveling." 

"  Don't  say  stupid  things." 

"  Oh,  how  I  love  you  !  " 

I  leaned  toward  him  so  as  not  to  lose  a  single  one  of  his 
words. 

"  I  shall  always  love  you,"  he  said.  "  Be  my  wife."  .  .  . 
He  proposed  that  we  should  confide  all  our  secrets  to  each 
other. 

"Oh,  as  to  yours,  they  do  not  interest  me." 

"Tell  me,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "how  many  times  have 
you  been  in  love  ? " 

"  Once." 

"And  with  whom?" 

"  With  a  man  I  do  not  know,  whom  I  saw  ten  or  twelve 
times  in  the  street,  and  who  is  not  even  aware  of  my  exist- 
ence. I  was  twelve  years  old  at  the  time,  and  I  had  never 
spoken  to  him." 

"  What  you  tell  me  is  like  f.ction." 

"It  is  the  truth." 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  69 

"  But  this  is  a  novel,  a  fantastic  tale.  Such  a  feeling 
would  be  impossible  ;  it  would  be  like  loving  a  shadow." 

"  Yes,  but  I  feel  that  I  have  no  reason  to  blush  for  having 
loved  him,  and  he  has  become  for  me  a  species  of  divinity. 
I  compare  him  to  no  one  in  my  thoughts,  and  there  is  no 
one  worthy  of  being  compared  to  him." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  I  do  not  even  know.  He  is  married  and  lives  far 
away." 

"  What  an  absurdity  !  " 

And  my  good  Pietro  looked  somewhat  disdainful  and 
incredulous. 

"  But  it  is  true :  I  love  you  now,  but  the  feeling  is  an 
entirely  different  one." 

"  I  give  you  the  whole  of  my  heart,"  he  answered,  "  and 
you  give  me  only  the  half  of  yours." 

"  Do  not  ask  for  too  much,  and  be  satisfied  with  what 
you  have." 

"  But  that  is  not  all  ?     There  is  something  else." 

"  That  is  all." 

"  Forgive  me,  and  allow  me  to  disbelieve  you  for  this 
once." 

(See  what  depravity  !) 

"  You  must  believe  the  truth." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  I  cried,  vexed. 

"  That  is  beyond  my  understanding,"  he  said. 

"  That  is  because  you  are  very  wicked." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  You  do  not  believe  that  I  have  never  allowed  any  one 
to  kiss  my  hand  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  do  not  believe  it." 

"  Sit  down  here  beside  me,"  I  said,  "  let  us  talk  over  our 
affairs,  and  tell  me  everything."  .  .  . 

"  You  will  not  be  angry  ?  "  he  asked. 


5ro  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  &ASHXIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

"  I  shall  be  angry  only  if  you  conceal  anything  from  me." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  you  understand  that  our  family  is  very 
well  known  here  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  that  you  are  strangers  in  Rome  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"Well,  my  mother  has  written  to  some  persons  in  Paris." 

"  That  is  very  natural  ;  and  what  do  they  say  of  me  ?" 

"  Nothing,  as  yet,  but  they  may  say  what  they  choose,  I 
shall  always  love  you." 

"  I  stand  in  no  need  of  your  indulgence  —  " 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  there  is  the  religion." 

"  Oh,  the  religion." 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  with  the  calmest  air  imaginable,  "  become 
a  Catholic." 

I  cut  him  short  with  a  very  severe  expression. 

"  Do  you  wish  me,  then,  to  change  my  religion  ?  "  asked 


"No,  because,  if  you  did  so,  I  should  despise  you."  To 
tell  the  truth  it  would  have  displeased  me  only  on  account 
of  the  Cardinal. 

"  How  I  love  you  !  How  beautiful  you  are  !  How 
happy  we  shall  be  !  " 

My  only  answer  was  to  take  his  head  between  my  hands 
and  kiss  him  on  the  forehead,  the  eyes,  the  hair.  I  did  it 
rather  on  his  account  than  my  own. 

"  Marie  !     Marie  !  "  cried  my  aunt  from  above. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked  quietly,  putting  my  head 
through  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  that  the  voice 
might  seem  to  come  from  my  room. 

"You  should  go  to  sleep  ;  it  is  two  o'clock." 

"  I  am  asleep." 

"  Are  you  undressed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  let  me  write." 

"  Go  to  bed." 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  /I 

"  Yes,  yes." 

I  went  down  again  and  found  the  place  empty  ;  tHc  poor 
fellow  had  hidden  himself  under  the  staircase. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  resuming  his  place,  "let  us  speak  of  the 
future." 

"  Yes,  let  us  speak  of  it." 

"  Where  shall  we  live  ?    Do  you  \iks  Rome  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  we  will  live  in  Rome,  but  by  ourselves — not  with 
my  family." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  in  the  first  place,  mamma  would  never 
consent  to  let  me  live  with  the  family  of  my  husband." 

"  She  would  be  right ;  and  then,  my  family  have  such  ex- 
traordinary ideas  !  It  would  be  torture.  We  will  buy  a 
little  house  in  the  new  quarter." 

"  I  should  prefer  a  large  one." 

"  Very  well,  then,  a  large  one." 

And  we  began — he,  at  least — to  make  plans  for  the 
future. 

"  We  will  go  into  society,"  I  resumed  ;  "we  will  keep  up 
a  large  establishment,  shall  we  not?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  tell  me  all  you  would  like." 

"  Yes,  when  people  decide  to  spend  their  lives  together, 
they  want  to  do  so  as  comfortably  as  possible." 

"  I  understand  that.  You  know  all  about  my  family  ; 
but  there  is  the  Cardinal." 

"  You  must  make  your  peace  with  him." 

"  Of  course  ;  I  shall  do  so  decidedly.  The  only  thing  is 
that  I  am  not  rich." 

"  No  matter,"  I  answered,  a  little  displeased,  but  suffi- 
ciently mistress  of  myself  to  refrain  from  making  a  gesture 
of  contempt  ;  this  was  perhaps  a  trap.  .  .  . 

No,  fhis  cannot  be  true  love  ;  in  true  love  there  is  no 
room  for  meanness  or  vulgarity. 

I  felt  secretly  dissatisfied.  .  .  . 


72  JO  URN  A  L  OF  MA  RlE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.          [1876. 

Do  I  love  him  truly,  or  is  it  only  that  he  has  turned  my 
head  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  From  the  moment  doubt  exists, 
however,  there  is  no  longer  room  for  doubt. 

"  Yes,  I  love  you,"  I  said,  taking  his  hands  in  mine  and 
pressing  them  tightly. 

He  did  not  answer  ;  perhaps  he  did  not  understand  the 
importance  I  attached  to  my  words  ;  perhaps  he  found 
them  quite  natural.  .  .  . 

But  I  began  to  be  afraid,  and  I  told  him  he  must  go.  "  It 
is  time,"  I  said. 

"  Already  ?  Stay  with  me  a  moment  longer.  How  happy 
we  are  thus  !  Dost  thou  love  me  ?"  he  cried  ;  "  Wilt  thou 
love  me  always,  always?" 

This  thou  chilled  me  and  made  me  feel  humiliated. 

"Always  !"  I  answered,  still  dissatisfied,  "always;  and 
you,  do  you  love  me?" 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  ask  me  such  things  ?  Oh,  my  darling, 
I  should  like  to  remain  here  forever  !  " 

"We  should  die  of  hunger,"  I  replied,  humiliated  by  this 
term  of  endearment,  and  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"  But  what  a  beautiful  death  ! — In  a  year,  then,"  he  said, 
devouring  me  with  his  eyes. 

"  In  a  year,"  I  repeated,  for  form's  sake  rather  than  for 
any  other  reason. 

At  this  moment  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  aunt,  who,  seeing 
light  still  in  my  room,  began  to  grow  impatient. 

"  Do  you*hear  ?"  I  said. 

We  kissed  each  other  and  I  fled,  without  once  turning 
back.  It  is  like  a  scene  out  of  a  novel,  that  I  have  read 
somewhere.  I  feel  humiliated.  I  am  angry  with  myself  ! 
Shall  I  always  be  my  own  critic,  or  is  it  because  I  do  not 
entirely  love  him  that  I  feel  thus  ? 

"  It  is  four  o'clock  !  "  cried  my  aunt. 

"  In  the  first  place,  aunt,  it  is  only  ten  minutes  past  two  ; 
and  in  the  next  place  leave  me  in  peace." 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  73 

"This  is  frightful  !  You  will  die,  if  you  sit  up  so  late," 
exclaimed  my  aunt. 

"  Listen,"  I  said,  opening  her  door,  "  don't  scold,  or  I 
shall  tell  you  nothing." 

"  What  is  it  ?     Oh,  what  a  girl !  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  was  not  writing,  I  was  with  Pietro." 

"  Where,  miserable  child  ?  " 

"  Downstairs." 

"  How  dreadful !  " 

"Ah,  if  you  cry  out  you  shall  hear  nothing." 

"You  were  with  A ." 

"Yes!" 

"  Well,  then,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  made  me  tremble, 
"  when  I  called  you  just  now,  1  knew  it." 

"  How  ? " 

"  I  had  a  dream  in  which  your  mother  came  to  me  and 
said,  "Do  not  leave  Marie  alone  with  A ." 

A  cold  shiver  passed  down  my  back  when  I  compre- 
hended that  I  had  escaped  a  real  danger.  .  .  . 

NICE,  Tuesday,  May  23. — I  should  like  to  be  certain  of  one 
thing — do  I  love  him  or  do  I  not  love  him  ? 

I  have  allowed  my  thoughts  to  dwell  so  much  on  grand- 
eur and  riches  that  Pietro  appears  to  me  a  very  insignificant 

person  indeed.  Ah,  H !  And  if  I  had  waited  ? — waited 

for  what  ?  A  millionnaire  prince,  an  H —  —  ?  And  if  no 
one  came  ?  I  try  to  persuade  myself  that  A —  —  is  very 
chic,  but  when  I  am  with  him  he  seems  to  me  even  more 
insignificant  than  he  really  is.  .  .  . 

To-night  I  love  him.  Should  I  do  well  to  accept  him  ? 
So  long  as  love  lasted,  it  would  be  very  well,  but  afterward  ? 

I  greatly  fear  that  I  could  not  endure  mediocrity  in  a  hus- 
band ! 

I  reason  and  discuss  as  if  I  were  mistress  of  the  situation. 
Ah  !  misery  of  miseries  ! 


74  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

To  wait  !     To  wait  for  what  ? 

And  if  nothing  comes  !  Bah  !  with  my  face  something 
will  come,  and  the  proof  is — that  I  am  scarcely  sixteen  and 
that  I  might  already  be  a  countess  two  and  a  half  times 
over  if  I  had  wished.  The  half  is  on  Pietro's  account. 

Wednesday,  May  24. — To-night,  on  retiring,  I  kissed 
mamma. 

"  She  kisses  like  Pietro,"  she  said  laughing. 

"  Has  he  kissed  you  ? "  I  asked. 

"  He  has  kissed  you"  said  Dina,  laughingly,  thinking  she 
had  said  the  most  dreadful  thing  possible,  and  causing  me 
to  feel  a  sensation  of  lively  remorse,  almost  of  shame. 

"  Oh,  Dina !  "  I  cried,  with  such  an  expression  that  mam- 
ma and  my  aunt  both  turned  on  her  a  look  of  reproach  and 
displeasure. 

Marie  kissed  by  a  man  !  Marie,  the  proud,  the  severe, 
the  haughty  !  Marie,  who  has  made  such  fine  speeches  on 
'  that  subject. 

This  made  me  inwardly  ashamed.  And  indeed,  why  was 
I  false  to  my  principles  ?  I  cannot  admit  that  it  was  through 
weakness,  through  passion.  If  I  were  to  admit  that,  I 
should  no  longer  respect  myself !  I  cannot  say  that  it  was 
through  love. 


Friday,  May  26. — My  aunt  remarked  to-day  that  A 

was  only  a  child. 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  said  mamma. 

These  words,  of  which  I  recognized  the  justice,  made  me 
feel  that  I  have  sullied  myself  for  nothing  ;  for,  after  all,  I 
have  committed  this  folly  without  the  excuse  of  either  inter- 
est or  love.-  It  is  maddening  ! 

After  his  departure  for  Rome  I  looked  at  myself  in  the 

glass,  to  see  if  my  lips  had  not  changed  their  color.  A 

will  have  the  right  to  say  I  loved  him,  and  that  the  break- 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  75 

ing  of  this  engagement  has  made  me  very  unhappy.  A 
broken  engagement  is  always  a  blot  on  the  life  of  a 
young  girl.  Every  one  will  say  we  loved  each  other,  but  no 
one  will  say  the  refusal  came  from  me.  We  are  neither 
sufficiently  liked  nor  sufficiently  great  for  that.  Besides, 
appearances  will  justify  those  who  may  say  so  ;  that  en- 
rages me  !  If  it  were  not  for  those  words  of  V , 

"  Oh,  child,  how  young  you  are  still  !  "  I  should  never  have 
gone  so  far.  But  I  needed  to  hear  his  repeated  offers  of 
marriage  to  soothe  my  wounded  vanity.  You  will  observe 
that  I  have  said  nothing  positive  ;  I  let  him  talk,  but,  as  I 
allowed  him  to  take  my  hands  in  his  and  kiss  them  he  failed 
to  notice  the  tone  of  my  voice,  and  in  his  happy  and  ex- 
alted mood  suspected  nothing.  These  thoughts  console  me, 
but  they  are  not  enough. 

They  say  the  blonde  is  the  ideal  woman  ;  as  for  me,  I  say 
the  blonde  is  the  material  woman,  par  excellence.  See  those 
golden  locks,  those  lips  red  as  blood,  those  deep-gray  eyes, 
that  rose-tinted  flesh,  that  Titian  knows  so  well  how  to 
paint,  and  tell  me  what  are  the  thoughts  with  which  they 
inspire  you  !  Besides,  we  have  Venus  among  the  Pagans, 
and  Magdalen  among  the  Christians,  both  of  them  blondes. 
While  the  woman  who  is  a  brunette,  who  is  really  as 
much  of  an  anomaly  as  a  man  who  is  fair, — the  brunette, 
with  her  eyes  of  velvet  and  her  skin  of  ivory,  may  remain 
pure  and  divine  in  our  thoughts.  There  is  a  fine  picture  of 
Titian's  in  the  Borghese  Palace  called  "  Pure  Love  and 
Impure  Love."  "  Pure  Love  "  is  a  beautiful  woman  with 
rosy  cheeks  and  black  hair,  who  is  regarding  with  a  tender 
look  her  infant  child  whom  she  is  holding  in  the  bath. 
"  Impure  Love  "  is  a  reddish  blonde  who  is  leaning 
against  something, — just  what,  I  do  not  remember, — with 
her  arms  crossed  above  her  head.  For  the  rest,  the  normal 
woman  is  fair,  and  the  normal  man  dark. 

The  different  types  we  see  that  are  in  seeming  contradic- 


?6  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF  [1876. 

tion  to  this  rule  are  sometimes  admirable,  but  they  are  none 
the  less  anomalies.  I  have  never  seen  any  one  to  be  com- 
pared to  the  Duke  of  H :  he  is  tall  and  strong  ;  he  has 

hair  of  a  beautiful  reddish  gold  hue,  and  a  mustache  of  the 
same  color  ;  his  eyes  are  gray  and  small,  but  piercing  ;  his 
lips  are  modeled  after  those  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere.  There 
is  in  his  whole  person  an  air  of  grandeur  and  majesty,  of 
haughtiness  even,  and  indifference  to  the  opinions  of  others. 
It  may  be  that  I  see  him  with  the' eyes  of  love.  Bah  !  I  do 
not  think  so  !  How  is  it  possible  to  love  a  man  who  is  dark, 
ugly,  extremely  thin  ?  who  has  beautiful  eyes,  it  is  true,  but 
who  has  all  the  awkwardness  of  a  very  young  man,  and 
whose  bearing  is  by  no  means  distinguished,  after  having 
loved  a  man  like  the  Duke,  even  though  it  be  three  years 
since  I  have  seen  him  ?  And  remember  that  three  years  in  a 
young  girl's  life  are  three  centuries.  Therefore  I  love  no 
one  but  the  Duke  !  And  the  Duke  will  not  be  very  proud  of 
my  love,  and  will  .care  very  little  about  it.  I  often  tell  my- 
self stories ;  I  think  of  all  the  men  I  have  ever  known  or 
heard  of — well,  not  even  to  an  Emperor  could  I  say,  "I  love 
you,"  with  the  conviction  that  I  was  speaking  the  truth. 
There  are  some  to  whom  I  could  not  say  it  at  all. — Stay  !  I 
have  said  it  in  reality  !  Yes,  but  I  thought  so  little  about 
it  at  the  time  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  speak  of  that. 

Sunday,  May  28. — I  am  reading  Horace  and  Tibullus. 
The  theme  of  the  latter  is  always  love,  and  that  suits  me. 
And  then  I  have  the  French  and  the  Latin  texts  side  by 
side  ;  that  gives  me  practice.  Provided  only  that  this  mar- 
riage affair  that  I  have  brought  about  by  my  own  thought- 
lessness does  not  injure  me  !  I  much  fear  it  may.  I  ought 

not  to  have  given  A any  promise  ;  I  should  have  said 

to  him  :  "  I  thank  you,  monsieur,  for  the  honor  you  have 
done  me,  but  I  can  give  you  no  answer  until  I  have  con- 
sulted with  my  family.  Let  your  people  speak  to  mine 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  77 

about  it,  and  we  shall  see.    As  for  me,"  I  might  have  added, 
to  soften  this  answer,  "  I  shall  have  no  objection  to  offer." 

This  accompanied  by  one  of  my  amiable  smiles,  and 
my  hand  to  kiss,  would  have  been  sufficient.  I  should  not 
then  have  compromised  myself ;  they  would  not  have  gos- 
siped about  me  at  Rome,  and  all  would  have  been  well.  I 
have  sense  enough,  but  it  always  comes  to  my  assistance 
too  late. 

Wednesday,  May  31. — Has  not  some  one  said  that  great 
minds  think  alike  ?  I  have  just  been  reading  La  Rochefou- 
cauld, and  I  find  he  has  said  a  great  many  things  that  1 
have  written  down  here — I,  who  believed  I  had  originated 
so  many  thoughts,  and  it  turns  out  that  they  are  all  things 
that  have  been  said  long  since. 

I  am  troubled  about  my  eyes.  Several  times,  while 
painting,  I  was  obliged  to  stop ;  I  could  no  longer  see.  I 
use  them  too  much,  for  I  spend  all  my  time  either  reading, 
writing,  or  painting.  I  went  over  my  compendium  of  the 
classics  this  evening,  and  that  gave  me  occupation.  And 
then,  I  have  discovered  a  very  interesting  work  on  Con- 
fucius— a  French  translation  from  the  Latin.  There  is 
nothing  like  keeping  the  mind  occupied  ;  work  is  a  cure  for 
everything,  especially  mental  work.  I  cannot  understand 
women  who  spend  their  time  knitting  or  embroidering — the 
hands  busy  and  the  mind  idle.  A  multitude  of  frivolous  or 
dangerous  fancies  must  crowd  upon  the  mind  at  such  a 
time,  and  if  there  is  any  secret  trouble  in  the  heart,  the 
thoughts  will  dwell  upon  that,  and  the  result  must  be  dis- 
astrous. .  .  . 

Ask  those  who  know  me  best  what  they  think  of  my  dis- 
position, and  they  will  tell  you  that  I  am  the  gayest,  the 
most  light-hearted,  as  well  as  the  most  self-reliant  person 
they  ever  saw,  for  I  experience  a  singular  pleasure  in 
appearing  haughty  and  happy,  invulnerable  to  a  wound 


7§  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

from  any  quarter,  and  I  delight  in  taking  part  in  discus- 
sions of  all  sorts,  both  serious  and  playful.  Here  you  see 
me  as  I  am.  To  the  world  I  am  altogether  different.  One 
would  suppose,  to  see  me,  that  I  had  never  had  a  care  in 
my  life,  and  that  I  was  accustomed  to  bend  circumstances 
and  people  alike  to  my  will. 

Saturday,  June  3. — Why  does  everything  turn  against  me? 
Forgive  me  for  shedding  tears,  O  my  God  !  There  are 
persons  more  unhappy  than  I ;  there  are  those  who  want 
for  bread,  while  I  sleep  under  lace  coverlets ;  there  are 
those  who  bruise  their  feet  against  the  stones  of  the  street, 
while  I  tread  on  carpet ;  there  are  those  who  have  only  the 
sky  for  a  canopy,  while  I  have  above  my  head  a  ceiling 
hung  with  blue  satin.  Perhaps  it  is  for  my  tears  that  you 
punish  me,  my  God ;  ordain,  then,  that  I  no  longer  weep. 
To  what  I  have  already  suffered  there  is  now  added  a  feel- 
ing of  personal  shame — shame  before  myself.  They  will 

say  :  "  Count  A asked  her  in  marriage,  but  there  was 

some  opposition,  so  he  changed  his  mind  and  withdrew." 

See  how  good  impulses  are  recompensed  ! 

• 
Sunday,  June  4. — When  Jesus  had  healed  the  lunatic,  his 

disciples  demanded  of  him  .why  they  had  not  been  able  to 
do  so,  and  he  answered  :  "  Because  of  your  unbelief  :  for 
verily  I  say  unto  you,  if  ye  have  faith  as  a  grain  of  mustard- 
seed,  ye  shall  say  unto  this  mountain,  Remove  hence  to 
yonder  place,  and  it  shall  remove  ;  and  nothing  shall  be 
impossible  to  you." 

On  reading  these  words  my  mind  was,  as  it  were,  illumined, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  perhaps,  I  believed  in  God. 
I  rose  to  my  feet,  I  was  conscious  of  myself  no  longer.  I 
clasped  my  hands  together,  and  raised  my  eyes  to  heaven  ; 
I  smiled  ;  I  was  in  a  state  of  ecstasy.  Never,  never  will  I 
doubt  again  ;  not  that  I  may  receive  a  reward  for  my  faith, 


i8;6.]         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  79 

but  because  I  am  convinced — because  I  believe.  Up  to  the 
age  of  twelve  I  was  spoiled  ;  my  lightest  wishes  were  obeyed, 
but  my  education  was  never  thought  of.  At  twelve  years  I 
asked  for  masters  ;  they  were  given  to  me,  and  I  made  out 
a  programme  for  myself.  I  owe  everything  to  myself.  .  .  . 

Thursday,  June  8. — .  ...  To  think  only  that  we  live  but 
once,  and  that  this  life  is  so  short !  When  I  think  of  this 
my  senses  forsake  me  and  my  mind  becomes  a  prey  to  de- 
spair !  We  live  but  once  !  And  I  am  losing  this  precious 
life,  hidden  in  obscurity,  seeing  no  one.  We  live  but  once  ! 
And  my  life  is  being  ruined.  We  live  but  once!  And  I  am 
made  to  waste  my  time  miserably.  And  the  days  are  pass- 
ing, passing,  never  to  return,  and  carrying  a  part  of  my  life 
with  them,  as  they  pass. 

We  live  but  once  !  Must  this  life,  already  so  short,  be  still 
further  shortened,  ruined,  stolen — yes,  stolen — by  miserable 
circumstances  ? 

Saturday,  June  10. — "  Do  you  know,"  I  said  to  the  doc- 
tor, "  that  I  spit  blood,  and  that  it  is  necessary  that  my 
health  should  be  attended  to  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  mademoiselle,"  replied  Walitsky,  "  if  you  continue 
to  go  to  bed  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  you  will  have 
every  ailment  under  the  sun." 

"  And  why  do  you  suppose  I  go  to  bed  late  ?  Because 
my  mind  is  disturbed.  Give  me  a  tranquil  mind  and  I  will 
sleep  tranquilly." 

"You  might  have  had  that  if  you  chose.  You  had  the 
opportunity  at  Rome." 

"  Who  would  have  given  it  to  me  ? " 

"A ,  if  you  had  consented  to  marry  him  without  ask- 
ing him  to  change  his  religion." 

"  Oh,  my  friend  Walitsky,  how  shocking  !  A  man  like 
A !  Think  of  what  you  are  saying  !  A  man  who  has 


So  JOURNAL  OF,  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

neither  an  opinion  nor  a  will  of  his  own  ;  you  have  made  a 
very  foolish  speech  !  " 

And  I  began  to  laugh  softly. 

"  He  neither  comes  to  see  us  nor  writes,"  I  continued  ; 
"he  is  a  poor  boy  whose  importance  we  have  exaggerated. 
No,  my  dear  friend,  he  is  only  a  boy,  and  we  were  wrong  to 
think  otherwise." 

I  preserved  the  same  calmness  in  uttering  these  words  as 
I  had  shown  during  the  rest  of  the  dialogue— a  calmness 
that  resulted  from  the  conviction  I  had  of  having  said  only 
what  was  just  and  true. 

/  went  to  my  own  room,  and  my  spirit  all  at  once  became,  as 
it  were,  illuminated.  I  comprehended  at  last  that  I  had  done 
wrong  in  allowing  a  kiss — a  single  one,  indeed,  but  still  a  kiss — 
and  in  giving  a  rendezvous  downstairs;  that,  if  I  had  not  gone 
out  into  the  hall  or  elsewhere,  to  seek  a  tete-a-tete,  the  man 
would  have  had  more  respect  for  me,  and  I  should  now  have  no 
occasion  for  either  anger  or  tears. 

(How  I  love  myself  for  having  spoken  thus  !  What  re- 
finement of  feeling  ! — Paris,  1877.) 

Everything  is  at  an  end  !  I  knew  well  this  state  of  things 
could  not  last.  I  long  to  lead  a  tranquil  life.  I  will  go  to 
Russia — that  will  improve  the  situation — and  bring  papa 
back  with  me  to  Rome. 

Monday,  January  12  ;  Tuesday,  January  13. — I,  who 
desired  to  live  half  a  dozen  lives  at  once,  I  do  not  live  even 
a  quarter  of  a  life.  I  am  held  in  chains.  But  God  will 
have  pity  upon  me  ;  my  strength  has  left  me, — I  feel  as  if 
I  were  going  to  die.  Yes,  I  must  either  acquire  what  God 
has  given  me  the  power  to  discern  and  to  comprehend,  in 
which  case  I  shall  be  worthy  of  a  future,  or  die.  For,  if 
God  cannot  with  justice  grant  me  all  I  ask,  he  will  not  have 
the  cruelty  to  make  an  unhappy  creature  live  to  whom  lie 


1 876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  8 1 

has  given  comprehension,  and  the  ambition  to  acquire  what 
she  comprehends. 

God  has  not  made  me  such  as  I  am  without  design.  He 
cannot  have  given  me  the  power  to  understand  all  things  in 
order  to  torture  me  by  denying  me  everything.  Such  a  sup- 
position is  not  in  accordance  with  the  nature  of  God,  who 
is  just  and  merciful.  I  must  either  attain  the  object  of  my 
ambition  or  die.  Let  it  be  as  He  wills.  I  love  Him  ;  I 
believe  in  Him  ;  I  bless  Him  ;  and  I  beg  Him  to  pardon 
me  for  all  the  wrong  I  may  have  done.  He  has  endowed 
me  with  the  comprehension  of  what  is  great,  in  order  that  I 
might  attain  it,  and  I  will  show  myself  to  be  worthy  of  the 
gift.  If  I  am  not  worthy,  then  God  will  allow  me  to  die. 

Wednesday,  June  14. — In  addition  to  the  triumph  I  have 
given  this  little  Italian,  which  deeply  vexes  me,  I  foresee, 
besides,  the  scandal  that  will  result  from  this  affair. 

I  did  not  anticipate  an  adventure  of  this  nature  ;  I  fore- 
saw nothing  of  the  sort  ;  I  had  never  imagined  that  such  a 
thing  could  happen  to  me  ;  if  I  am  as  beautiful  as  I  say, 
why  then  am  I  not  loved  ?  I  am  admired,  I  am  made  love  to, 
but  I  am  not  loved — I,  who  have  so  much  need  of  love  ! 
It  is  the  novels  I  have  read  that  have  turned  my  head  ! 
No  ;  but  I  read  novels  because  my  head  is  turned.  I  read 
over  and  over  again  the  novels  I  have  already  read,  seeking 
out  the  love-scenes  with  lamentable  eagerness.  I  devour 
them,  because  I  think  I  am  loved — because  I  think  I  am  not 
loved  ! 

I  love,  yes  ;  I  will  give  no  other  name  to  what  I  feel. 

But  no  ;  this  is  not  what  I  long  for.  I  long  to  go  into 
society  ;  I  long  to  shine  ;  I  long  for  high  rank,  for  riches, 
pictures,  palaces,  jewels  ;  I  long  to  be  the  center  of  a  brill- 
iant circle — political,  literary,  charitable,  frivolous.  I  long 
for  all  this.  May  God  grant  it  to  me  ! 

My  God,  do  not  chastise  me  for  these  wildly  ambitious 


8  2  JO  URN  A  L  OF  MARIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.          [1876. 

thoughts.  Are  there  not  people  who  are  born  in  the  midst 
of  all  this,  and  who  find  it  natural  to  possess  it,  and  who 
thank  God  for  it? 

Am  I  culpable  in  desiring  to  be  great?  No,  for  I  desire 
to  employ  my  greatness  in  manifesting  my  gratitude  to  God, 
and  in  being  happy.  Is  it  forbidden  to  wish  to  be  happy? 

Those  who  find  their  happiness  in  a  modest  and  com- 
fortable home,  are  they  less  ambitious  than  I?  No,  for  they 
have  no  comprehension  of  anything  beyond.  He  who  is 
content  to  live  humbly,  in  the  midst  of  his  family,  is  he  thus 
modest  and  moderate  in  his  wishes  through  wisdom?  No, 
no,  no!  He  is  so  because  he  is  happy  thus;  because  to  live 
obscurely  is  for  him  the  height  of  happiness.  And  if  he 
does  not  desire  excitement,  it  is  because  excitement  would 
render  him  unhappy.  There  are  those,  too,  who  have  not 
the  courage  to  be  ambitious;  those  are  not  sages,  but  cow- 
ards; because  they  desire,  in  secret,  what  they  do  not  pos- 
sess, but  make  no  effort  to  obtain  it,  not  through  Christian 
virtue,  because  of  a  timid  and  incapable  nature.  My  God; 
if  I  reason  badly,  enlighten  me,  pardon  me,  pity  me ! 

Thursday,  June  22. — When  I  used  to  hear  Italy  praised 
I  was  incredulous;  I  could  not  understand  why  there  was 
so  much  enthusiasm  about  this  country,  and  why  it  was 
spoken  of  as  if  it  were  different  from  other  countries.  It  is 
because  it  is  different  from  other  countries.  It  is  because 
one  breathes  there  another  atmosphere.  Life  is  not  the 
same  as  elsewhere;  it  is  free,  fantastic,  large,  reckless  and 
yet  languid,  fiery  yet  gentle,  like  its  sun,  its  sky,  its  glowing 
plain.  Therefore  it  is  that  I  soar  upward  on  my  poet's 
wings  (I  am  sometimes  altogether  a  poet,  and  almost  always 
one  on  some  side  of  my  nature),  and  am  ready  to  exclaim 
with  Mignon: 

Italia,  reggio  di  ciel, 
Sol  beato  ! 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  83 

Saturday,  June  24. — I  was  waiting  to  be  called  to  break- 
fast when  the  doctor  arrived,'  quite  out  of  breath,  to  tell  me 
he  had  received  a  letter  from  Pietro.  I  turned  very  red 
and  without  raising  my  eyes  from  my  book  asked : 

"Well,  what  does  he  say?" 

"They  refuse  to  give  him  any  money.  But  you  will 
yourself  be  able  to  judge  from  the  letter,  better  than  I." 

I  took  good  care  to  show  no  eagerness  to  see  it.  I  was 
ashamed  to  manifest  so  much  interest  in  the  matter  as  that 
would  imply. 

Contrary  to  custom  I  was  the  first  at  table.  I  ate  my 
breakfast  with  impatience,  but  I  said  nothing. 

"Is  what  the  doctor  has  told  me  true?"  I  asked  at  last. 

"Yes,"  responded  my  aunt.    "A has  written  to  him." 

"Where  is  the  letter,  doctor?" 

"In  my  room." 

"Show  it  to  me." 

The  letter  bears  date  of  June  10,  but  as  A directed  it 

simply  "Nice,"  it  has  traveled  all  through  Italy  before 
arriving  here. 

"I  have  done  nothing  all  this  time,"  he  writes,  "but  ask 
my  family  to  allow  me  to  go  to  Nice,  .but  they  absolutely 
refuse  to  hear  of  it";  so  that  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  come, 
and  there  is  nothing  left  him  but  to  hope  in  the  future, 
which  is  always  uncertain. 

The  letter  was  in  Italian;  they  waited  for  me  to  translate 
it.  I  said  not  a  word,  but  gathering  up  my  train  with 
affected  deliberation,  so  that  they  might  not  attribute  my 
departure  to  agitation,  I  left  the  room  and  crossed  the  gar- 
den, my  countenance  calm,  but  hell  within  my  heart. 

This  letter  is  not  in  answer  to  a  telegram  from  some 
Monaco  acquaintance,  that  one  should  laugh  at  it.  It  is  in 
answer  to  me;  it  is  an  announcement.  And  it  is  tome! 
To  me  who  had  soared  so  high  in  imagination;  it  is  to  me 
he  says  this.  What  remains  for  me  to  do? 


84  JOURNAL  Of  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

To  die?  God  does  not  will  it.  To  become  a  singer?  I 
have  neither  the  health  nor  this  patience  for  it. 

What  then?    What  then? 

I  threw  myself  on  a  sofa,  and  with  my  eyes  fixed  stupidly 
on  vacancy  tried  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  the  letter, 
to  think  of  what  course  to  pursue. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  my  suffering.  Besides,  there 
comes  a  time  when  complaints  are  useless.  Crushed  as  I 
am  of  what  should  I  complain? 

I  cannot  describe  the  profound  disgust  and  discourage- 
ment I  feel.  Love!  Word  henceforth  without  meaning  to 
me!  This,  then,  is  the  truth?  This  man  has  never  loved 
me;  and  he  looks  upon  marriage  only  as  the  means  of  ac- 
quiring his  freedom.  As  for  his  protestations,  I  do  not  take 
them  into  account.  I  have  spoken  of  them  to  no  one.  I 
do  not  place  sufficient  confidence  in  them  to  speak  of  them 
seriously.  I  do  not  say  that  he  has  always  lied  to  me.  A 
man  almost  always  believes  in  his  protestations  the  moment 
he  is  uttering  them,  but  afterward? 

And  notwithstanding  all  these  reflections,  I  am  burning  to 
be  revenged.  I  will  bide  my  time,  but  be  sure  I  will  be 
revenged.  I  went  into  my  room,  wrote  a  few  lines,  and 
then,  suddenly  losing  heart,  burst  into  tears.  Oh,  after  all, 
I  am  nothing  but  a  child.  These  sorrows  are  too  heavy  for 
me  to  bear  all  alone.  I  thought  of  awaking  my  aunt,  but 
she  would  think  I  was  crying  from  disappointed  love,  and 
I  could  not  endure  that.  To  say  that  love  has  no  part  in 
my  tears  would  be  to  speak  the  truth.  I  am  ashamed  of 
that  feeling  now. 

I  might  write  all  night  without  being  able  to  express  what 
I  feel;  and  if  I  could  succeed  in  expressing  it,  I  should  say 
nothing  new,  nothing  that  I  have  not  already  said. 

Sunday,  July  2. — Oh,  what  heat!  Oh,  what  ennui! 
But  I  arn  wrong  to  say  ennui  (that  one  can  never  feel  who 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  AfARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  $ 

has  so  many  resources  within  one's-self  as  I  have).  I  do 
not  feel  ennui ;  for  I  read,  I  sing,  I  paint,  I  dream;  but  I 
am  restless  and  sorrowful.  Is  my  poor  young  life,  then, 
doomed  to  be  spent  in  eating  and  drinking,  and  domestic 
quarrels?  Woman  lives  from  sixteen  to  forty.  I  tremble  at 
the  thought  of  losing  even  a  single  month  of  my  life.  If 
this  is  to  be,  why  have  I  studied,  and  sought  to  know  more 
than  other  women,  priding  myself  on  being  as  learned  as 
great  men  are  said  in  their  biographies  to  have  been. 

I  have  a  general  idea  of  many  things,  but  I  have  devoted 
my  attention  chiefly  to  painting,  literature,  and  physics,  so 
that  I  might  have  time  to  read  everything — everything  in- 
teresting, that  is  to  say.  It  is  true  that  once  I  begin,  I  find 
everything  interesting.  And  all  this  produces  in  me  a 
genuine  fever. 

If  this  is  to  be  so,  why  have  I  studied  and  reflected? 
Why  were  genius  and  beauty  and  the  gift  of  song  be- 
stowed upon  me?  That  I  might  wither  in  obscurity  and 
die  of  sadness.  If  I  had  been  ignorant  and  stupid  I  might 
then,  perhaps,  have  been  happy.  Not  a  living  soul  with 
whom  to  exchange  a  word!  One's  family  does  not  suffice 
for  a  creature  of  sixteen — above  all,  a  creature  such  as  I  am. 
Grandpapa,  it  is  true,  is  a  man  of  intelligence,  but  he  is 
old  and  blind ;  he  irritates  one  with  his  eternal  complaints 
about  the  dinner  and  about  his  servant  Triphon. 

Mamma  has  a  good  deal  of  intelligence,  very  little  learn- 
ing, no  knowledge  of  the  world,  no  tact  whatever  ;  and  her 
faculties  have  deteriorated  through  thinking  of  nothing  but 
the  servants,  my  health,  and  the  dogs.  My  aunt  is  a  little 
more  polished  ;  she  is  imposing,  even,  to  those  who  know 
her  but  slightly. 

Have  I  ever' mentioned  their  ages?  If  it  were  not  for 
ill-health,  mamma  would  be  still  a  superb  woman.  My  aunt 
is  a  few  years  younger,  but  looks  older  ;  she  is  net  hand- 
some, but  she  is  tall  and  she  has  a  good  figure. 


86  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

Monday,  July  3. — I  leave  Nice  to-morrow.  I  feel  an 
indefinable  sadness  at  leaving  Nice.  I  have  selected  the 
music  I  shall  take  with  me,  and  some  books — the  ency- 
clopaedia, a  volume  of  Plato,  Dante,  Ariosto,  Shakespeare, 
and  several  English  novels,  by  Bulwer,  Collins,  and 
Dickens. 

I  went  into  my  room,  followed  by  all  the  dogs.  I  drew  the 
white  box  over  to  the  table.  Ah,  that  is  my  chief  regret — 
my  journal  !  That  is  the  half  of  myself.  I  was  accustomed 
to  glance  over  some  one  of  its  volumes  every  day,  when  I 
wished  to  recall  Rome  or  Nice,  or  something  still  further 
back  in  the  past. 

And  as  if  expressly  for  me — on  this  the  eve  of  my  depar- 
ture— the  moon  shone  brightly,  lighting  up  the  beauties  of 
my  city  with  her  pale  and  silvery  light.  My  city?  Yes,  my 
city.  I  am  too  insignificant  a  person  for  any  one  to  care  to 
dispute  its  ownership  with  me.  Besides,  does  not  the  sun 
belong  equally  to  every  one  ?  I  entered  the  drawing-room  ; 
the  moon's  rays  poured  in  through  the  large,  open  windows, 
and  lighted  up  the  white  plaster  wall,  and  the  white  covers 
of  the  chairs.  One  feels  melancholy  without  knowing  why, 
on  a  summer  night  like  this. 

To  leave  my  journal  behind,  that  is  a  real  grief. 

This  poor  journal,  the  confidant  of  all  my  struggles 
toward  the  light,  all  those  outbursts,  which  would  be  regarded 
as  the  outbursts  of  imprisoned  genius  if  they  were  to  be 
finally  crowned  by  success,  but  which  will  be  regarded  only 
as  the  idle  ravings  of  a  commonplace  creature  if  I  am  des- 
tined to  languish  forever  in  obscurity.  To  marry  and  have 
children  ?  Any  washerwoman  can  do  that. 

What  then  do  I  desire  ?  Ah,  you  know  well  what  I 
desire — I  desire  glory  ! 

It  is  not  this  journal  that  will  give  it  to  me,  however. 
This  jouriial  will  be  published  only  afier  my  death  ;  for  I 
show  myself  too  nakedly  in  it  to  wish  it  to  be  read  during  my 


:8?6]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK'IRTSEIF.  157 

lifetime.  Besides,  it  would  not  in  that  case  be  the  comple- 
ment of  an  illustrious  existence. 

An  illustrious  existence  !  Vain  illusion  !  resulting  from 
an  isolated  life,  much  reading  of  history,  and  a  too  lively 
imagination. 

I  know  no  language  perfectly.  My  own  is  familiar  to  me 
only  in  connection  with  domestic  affairs.  I  left  Russia  at 
the  age  of  ten,  and  I  speak  English  and  Italian  well.  I 
think  and  write  in  French,  yet  I  believe  I  still  make  mis- 
takes in  spelling.  And  often,  to  my  unutterable  vexation, 
I  find  some  thought  which  I  had  vainly  sought  to  put  into 
fitting  words,  expressed  by  some  celebrated  author  with 
fluency  and  grace.  Here  is  an  instance  :  "  To  travel,  what- 
ever we  may  say  to  the  contrary,  is  one  of  the  saddest 
pleasures  in  life ;  when  you  begin  to  feel  yourself  at 
home  in  some  foreign  land,  it  is  because  you  have  already 
begun  to  make  it  your  country."  It  is  the  author  of  Corinne 
who  says  this.  And  how  many  times  have  I  lost  patience, 
trying  vainly,  pen  in  hand,  to  express  the  same  thought,  and 
burst  out,  at  last,  into  some  such  words  as  these:  "I  hate 
new  cities  !  It  is  a  martyrdom  for  me  to  see  new  faces  !  " 
We  all  think  alike,  then  ;  the  only  difference  is  in  the  way  we 
express  our  thoughts ;  as  men  are  all  made  out  of  the  same 
material,  but  how  widely  do  they  differ  in  feature,  form, 
complexion,  and  character  ! 

One  of  these  days  I  shall  no  doubt  come  across  some  such 
thought  as  this,  but  expressed  with  spirit,  eloquence,  and 
grace. 

There,  this  volume  is  finished.  When  I  arrive  in  Paris  I 
will  begin  a  new  one  that  will  no  doubt  suffice  for  Russia 
also. 

I  shall  take  Pietro's  last  letter  with  me. 

I  have  just  read  it  again.  He  is  unhappy  !  Why,  then, 
has  he  not  more  energy  ? 

It  is  easy  for  me — obeyed  as  I  am  by  every  one — to  talk  ; 


88  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

but  for  him — And  then  those  Romans — there  are  no 
other  people  in  the  world  like  them. 

Poor  Pietro  !  The  thought  of  my  future  glory  forbids  me 
to  allow  my  mind  to  dwell  seriously  upon  him.  I  feel  as  if 
it  reproached  me  for  the  moments  I  dedicate  to  him. 

Dear  Divinity,  reassure  thyself.  Pietro  is  nothing  more 
for  me  than  an  amusement — a  strain  of  music  in  which  to 
drown  the  lamentations  of  my  soul.  If  I  reproach  myself  for 
allowing  my  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  him,  it  is  because  he 
can  be  of  no  service  to  me.  He  cannot  even  be  the  first 
rung  of  the  divine  ladder  that  leads  to  fame. 

GRAND  HOTEL,  PARIS,  July  4. 

Amor,  ut  lacryoia,  oculo  oritur  in  pectus  cadit. 

— PUBLIUS  SYRUS. 

Wednesday,  July  5. — I  left  Nice  yesterday  at  two  in  the 
afternoon,  accompanied  by  my  aunt  and  Amalie  my  maid. 
Mamma  cried  for  fully  three  hours  at  the  thought  of  our 
separation,  so  that  I  was  amiable  and  affectionate  with  her. 
At  half-past  two  we  reached  Paris  ;  it  must  be  confessed 
that  if  Paris  is  not  the  most  beautiful,  it  is  at  least  the  most 
charming,  the  most  spiiitnelle  of  cities. 


Thursday,  July  13. — We  went  to  see  the  Countess  M- 


this  evening.     She  spoke  to  me  on  the  subject  of  marrying. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "I  have  no  wish  to  marry.  I  want  to 
be  a  great  singer.  See,  dear  Countess,  we  must  do  this  ;  I 
will  disguise  myself  as  a  poor  girl,  and  you  and  my  aunt  will 
take  me  to  the  most  celebrated  singing-master  in  Paris,  as 
a  little  Italian  protege's  of  yours  who  gives  promise  of  being  a 
singer." 

"Oh  !  oh  !  "  cried  the  Countess  in  remonstrance. 

"  That  is  the  only  way  to  learn  the  truth  concerning  my 
voice,"  I  resumed  tranquilly.  "And  I  have  one  of  last 


1876.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF,  89 

year's  dresses  that  will  just  produce  the  desired  effect  !  "  I 
added,  pursing  up  my  mouth  and  pushing ^out  my  lips. 
"  After  all,  it  is  an  excellent  idea  !  "  she  said  al  last. 

Friday,  July  14. — Since  morning  I  have  been  taking  the 
greatest  care  of  myself ;  I  have  not  coughed  once  more 
than  was  necessary.  I  have  not  moved.  I  am  dying  of 
heat  and  thirst,  but  I  have  not  taken  even  a  drink  of 
water.  .  .  , 

We  set  out  at  last,  with  Madame  de  M ,  and  proceeded 

to  No.  37  Chaussee  d'Antin,  when  M.Wartel,  the  most  cele- 
brated singing-master  in  Paris,  lives. 

Madame  de  M had  spoken  to  him  of  me  as  a  young 

girl  from  Italy  who  had  been  particularly  recommended  to 
her,  and  whose  family  desired  to  know  what  hopes  she  gave 
of  becoming  a  great  singer. 

We  reached  the  house  at  three  .  .  .  and  were  shown  into 
a  little  salon  adjoining  the  one  in  which  the  master  was  giv- 
ing a  singing  lesson.  At  last  four  o'clock  struck.  I  felt  my 
limbs  tremble  and  my  strength  fail  me. 

Wartel  made  me  a  sign  that  meant  "come  in."  I  did  not 
understand. 

"  Come  in,  mademoiselle,  come  in,"  he  said. 

I  entered  the  salon,  followed  by  my  two  protectresses, 
whom  I  begged  to  return  to  the  room  we  had  left,  lest  their 
presence  should  intimidate  me,  and  in  truth  I  felt  very  much 
afraid. 

Wartel  is  an  old  man,  but  his  accompanist  is  quite 
young. 

"  Do  you  read  music  ? "  asked  the  master. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied. 

"  What  pieces  can  you  sing  ?  " 

"  None  ;  but  I  can  sing  a  scale  or  an  exercise." 

"Take  an  exercise,  then,  Monsieur  ("hose.  What  is  your 
voice — soprano  ?  " 


9°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

"  No,  monsieur,  contralto." 

"  We  shall  see.," 

Wartel,  who  did  not  rise  from  the  arm-chair  in  which  he 
was  seated,  made  me  a  sign  to  begin,  and  I  proceeded  to 
sing  the  exercise  with  diffidence  at  first,  then  desperate,  and 
at  last  satisfied. 

"•Well,"  said  the  master,  "your voice  is  rather  a  mezzo- 
soprano  than  a  contralto.  It  is  a  voice  that  will  gain  in 
range.  Have  you  ever  taken  lessons  ? " 

"  Never,  Monsieur  ;  that  is  to  say,  ten  lessons  only." 

"  Well,  you  must  work  hard.     Can  you  sing  a  romance  ? " 

"  The  aria  from  Mignon  !  "  cried  my  aunt  from  the  other 
room. 

*'  Very  well ;  sing  the  aria  from  Mignon." 

As  I  sang,  the  countenance  of  Wartel,  which  at  first  had 
expressed  only  attention,  showed  a  slight  surprise  which 
gradually  deepened  into  amazement ;  at  last  he  went  so  far 
as  to  keep  time  to  the  music  with  his  head,  smiling  agree- 
ably as  he  did  so,  and  finally  to  join  in  himself. 

"  Good,  very  good  !  now  make  her  sing  a —  "  I  have  for- 
gotten the  word  he  used. 

The  accompanist  made  me  sing  the — (it  signifies  little 
what  its  name  was),  he  made  me  run  through  all  my  notes. 

"  As  far  as  si  natural,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Yes,  it  is  a 
mezzo-soprano  ;  and  that  is  better,  much  better,  for  the 
stage." 

I  continued  standing. 

"  Sit  down,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  accompanist,  examin- 
ing me  from  head  to  foot  with  his  eyes. 

I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa. 

"In  fine,"  said  the  severe  Wartel,  "you  must  work  hard  ; 
you  will  succeed." 

"  How  long  will  it  take  to  develop  her  voice  ?  "  said  Ma- 
dame de  M . 

"You  can   understand,  madame,  that  that   will   depend 


1876.]        JOURX.IL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  91 

u[)on  the  j)ui)il  herself;  some  do  not  need  so  long  —  those 
who  have  intelligence." 

"  This  one  has  more  than  is  necessary." 

"  Ah,  so  much  the  better  ;  in  that  case  it  will  be 
easier." 

"  But,  finally,  how  long  will  it  take  ?  " 

"To  develop  her  voice,  to  perfect  it,  fully  three  years; 
yes.  fully  three  years'  work,  fully  three  years  !  "  he  repeated. 

I  was  silent,  meditating  vengeance  against  the  perfidious 
accompanist,  whose  looks  seemed  to  say,  "  This  little  girl 
has  a  good  figure,  she  is  pretty  ;  that  will  be  amusing." 

After  a  few  words  more  we  rose  :  Wartel  remained  seated, 
and  extended  his  hand  kindly  to  me.  I  bit  my  lips. 

"  Listen,"  I  said  at  the  door,  "  let  us  go  back  and  tell  them 
the  truth." 

My  aunt  took  out  her  card,  and  we  returned,  laughing.  I 
told  the  severe  maestro  of  my  stratagem. 

What  an  expression  the  face  of  the  accompanist  wore  ! 
I  shall  never  forget  it  ;  I  was  avenged. 

Sunday,  July  23.  —  Rome  —  Paris  —  the  stage,  singing,  paint- 
ing ! 

No,  no  !    Russia  before  everything  !     That  is  the  founda- 
tion of  everything.     Since  I  am  posing  as  a  sage,  let  me  play 
my  part  consistently  ;  let  me  not  be  led  astray  by  any  will-o'- 
the-wisps  of  imagination. 
.  Russia  first  of  all,  if  God  will  only  help  me. 

I  have  written  to  mamma.  Here  I  am,  out  of  love,  and 
up  to  my  ears  in  business.  Oh,  if  God  will  only  help  me, 
then  all  will  go  well. 

May  the  Virgin  Mary  pray  for  me  ! 


,  July  27.  —  We  arrived  this  morning  in  Berlin. 
The  city  made  a  singularly  agreeable  impression  on  me  ; 
the  houses  are  extremely  handsome, 


92  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

Friday,  July  28. — Berlin  reminds  me  of  Italy,  of  Florence. 
It  reminds  me  of  Florence  because  my  aunt  is  with  me  here, 
as  she  was  at  Florence,  and  the  life  we  lead  is  the  same. 
Before  going  anywhere  else  we  went  to  the  Museum. 
Whether  from  ignorance  or  prejudice,  I  had  not  expected  to 
see  so  fine  a  collection  of  works  of  art  as  we  found  here.  As 
usual,  it  was  the  sculpture  that  most  engaged  my  attention  ; 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  one  sense  more  than  other  peo- 
ple— a  sense  devoted  especially  to  the  comprehension  of 
sculpture. 

Here  I  am  lodged  like  Faust, — before  me  an  antique 
German  bureau,  at  which  I  am  seated  with  books,  manu- 
scripts and  rolls  of  paper  around  me. 

Where  is  the  devil  ?  Where  is  Margaret  ?  Alas !  the 
devil  is  always  with  me  ;  my  mad  vanity — that  is  the  devil. 
O  ambition  unjustified  by  results !  O  vain  aspirations 
toward  an  unknown  goal ! 

I  hate  moderation  in  anything.  I  want  either  a  life  of 
continual  excitement  or  one  of  absolute  repose.  Why  the 
thought  should  occur  to  me  now  I  know  not,  but  I  do  not 

love  A .  Not  only  do  I  not  love  him,  but  I  do  not 

even  think  of  him  any  longer,  and  all  that  appears  to  me  a 
dream. 

While  I  do  not  admire  the  plainness  and  the  materialism 
of  the  Germans,  I  must  concede  to  them  many  good  quali- 
ties :  they  are  very  polite,  and  very  obliging.  What  I  like 
most  in  them  is  the  respect  they  entertain  for  their  history 
and  for  their  rulers.  This  shows  they  are  still  far  from  being 
contaminated  by  the  infection  of  what  is  called  republican- 
ism. No  other  form  of  government  can  be  compared  to  the 
ideal  republic  ;  but  a  republic  is  like  ermine — the  slightest 
blemish  upon  it  renders  it  worthless.  And  where  will  you 
find  a  republic  without  blemish  ?  " 

No,  life  here  is  impossible  ;  this  is  a  frightful  country. 
Fine  houses,  broad  streets — but  nothing  for  the  spirit  or  the 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  93 

imagination.     The   most  insignifican.   town  in  Italy  is  the 
equal  of  Berlin  in  this  respect. 

Sunday,  July  30. — Nothing  can  be  gloomier  than  Berlin. 
The  city  bears  the  stamp  of  simplicity — a  simplicity  with- 
out beauty  or  grace.  The  innumerable  monuments  that 
encumber  the  bridges,  the  streets,  and  the  gardens  seem 
unmeaning  and  out  of  place.  Berlin  reminds  one  of  the 
pictures  on  certain  clocks,  where,  at  stated  intervals,  the 
soldiers  come  out  from  the  barracks,  the  boatmen  row,  and 
ladies  in  hoods,  holding  little  children  by  the  hand,  pass  by. 

Now  that  the  time  has  arrived  when  I  shall  cross  the 
borders  of  Russia,  and  be  left  without  either  my  aunt  or 
mamma,  my  courage  fails,  and  I  begin  to  be  afraid.  The 
law-suit,  the  uncertainty — and  then,  and  then — I  don't  know 
why,  but  I  fear  that  I  shall  be  able  to  alter  nothing. 

In  two  hours  more  we  leave  Berlin.  To-morrow  I  shall 
be  in  Russia.  Well,  then,  no  ;  I  will  not  be  afraid.  I  am 
strong.  Only,  if  my  journey  should  prove  to  be  in  vain  ! 
But  it  will  not  do  to  think  of  that.  One  must  not  despair 
beforehand. 

Oh,  if  any  one  could  know  what  I  feel  ! 

The  country  here  is  flat,  and  thickly  wooded,  but  the 
foliage,  although  fresh  and  luxuriant,  has  a  certain  look  of 
sadness,  after  the  rich  and  flourishing  verdure  of  the  South. 
We  were  conducted  to  an  inn  called  the  Russian  Hotel, 
and  installed  in  two  small  chambers  with  whitewashed 
ceilings  and  bare  wooden  floors,  and  furniture  equally  sim- 
ple and  unpretending. 

Thursday,  August  3  ;  Friday,  August  4  (July  23,  Russian 
style). — Yesterday  at  three  o'clock  I  went  to  meet  the  train, 
and  fortunately  found  my  uncle,  who  had  already  arrived, 
waiting  for  me.  ...  At  midnight  I  entered  the  carriage  ; 
my  aunt  cried  ;  I  held  my  eyes  level  and  motionless,  so  that 


94  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

the  tears  might  not  overflow.  The  conductor  gave  the  sig- 
nal, and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  found  myself  alone  ! 
I  began  to  sob  aloud  ;  but  don't  imagine  I  derived  no  profit 
from  it !  I  studied  from  nature  the  art  of  crying. 

"  Enough  !  my  child,"  I  said  at  last,  sitting  erect.  It 
was  time.  I  was  in  Russia.  On  descending  from  the  car- 
riage I  was  received  in  the  arms  of  my  uncle,  who  was  ac- 
companied by  two  gendarmes  and  two  custom-house  officers.  - 
I  was  treated  like  a  princess  ;  they  did  not  even  examine 
my  luggage.  The  station  is  large,  and  the  officials  are  well- 
bred  and  extremely  polite.  I  fancied  myself  in  some  ideal 
country,  everything  is  so  well-managed.  .  .  .  My  com- 
patriots awaken  no  particular  emotion  in  me,  no  species  of 
ecstasy  such  as  I  have  experienced  on  revisiting  other  coun- 
tries that  I  had  seen  before  ;  all  I  feel  is  a  sort  of  sympathy 
for  them  and  a  sensation  of  extreme  ease.  It  was  still  day- 
light at  half-past  nine.  We  had  already  passed  Gatchina, 
the  ancient  residence  of  Paul  I.,  who  was  so  persecuted  all 
his  lifetime  by  his  haughty  mother  ;  and  soon  arrived  at 
Tsarskoe  Selo,  within  twenty-five  minutes  of  St.  Petersburg. 

Sunday,  August  6. — It  is  raining,  and  I  have  taken  cold  ; 
I  have  written  in  my  letter  to  mamma,  '*  St.  Petersburg  is  a 
filthy  place  !  The  streets  are  disgraceful  for  the  capital  of 
a  country  ;  one  is  mercilessly  jolted  over  the  rough  paving- 
stones  ;  the  Winter-Palace  is  a  barracks,  and  so  is  the 
Grand  Theater ;  the  cathedrals  are  richly  decorated,  but 
outlandish  and  badly  planned." 

I  tried  to  call  up  some  emotion  on  looking  at  the  portrait 

of  Pietro  A ,  but  he  is  not  handsome  enough  to  make 

one  forget  that  he  is  a  despicable  man,  a  creature  one  cannot 
but  regard  with  contempt.  I  am  no  longer  angry  with  him  ; 
I  despise  him  too  much  for  that — not  from  personal  feeling, 
but  because  of  his  manner  of  life,  of  his  weakness  of  char- 
acter. Stay,  I  am  going  to  define  for  you  the  word  weak- 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  95 

ness.  The  weakness  which  inclines  us  to  the  good,  to  ten- 
derness, to  the  forgiveness  of  injuries,  may  be  called  by  that 
name,  but  the  weakness  which  inclines  us  to  evil-doing  and 
wickedness  is  called  cowardice. 

I  thought  I  should  feel  the  separation  from  my  family 
more  than  I  do.  I  am,  however,  not  happy  j  but  that  is 
rather  owing  to  the  presence  of  disagreeable  and  common 
people  (my  poor  uncle,  for  example,  notwithstanding  his 
beauty),  than  to  the  absence  of  those  I  love. 

Monday,  August  7,  1876  (July  26). — I  have  just  come 
from  the  post-office,  where  I  went  to  get  my  photographs 
and  a  dispatch  from  my  father.  He  had  telegraphed  to 
Berlin  that  my  coming  would  be  for  him  a  ''real  happiness." 

Thursday,  August  10  (July  29),  1876. — This  is  a  memor- 
able evening.  I  have  finally  ceased  to  regard  the  Duke  of 

A as  my  cherished  ideal.  I  saw  at  Bergamasco's  a 

portrait  of  the  Grand  Duke  Vladimir,  from  which  I  could 
not  tear  myself  away  ;  a  more  perfect  and  pleasing  type  of 
beauty  could  not  be  imagined.  Giro  grew  enthusiastic 
with  me  over  it,  and  we  ended  by  kissing  the  portrait  on 
the  lips.  ...  I  adored  the  Duke  when  I  might  have  adored 
a  Prince  Imperial  of  Russia  !  It  was  stupid,  but  one  can- 
not command  these  things  ;  and  then,  in  the  beginning  I 

regarded  H as  my  equal,  as  a  man  whom  I  might 

aspire  to  marry.  Well,  that  is  past.  Who  will  be  my  idol 
now  ?  No  one.  I  shall  live  for  fame,  and  in  the  hope  of 
finding — a  man. 

Behold  me,  then,  free  !  I  have  no  longer  an  idol  to 
worship  ;  I  am  in  search  of  some  one  to  adore,  and  I  must 
find  one  soon,  for  life  without  love  is  like  a  bottle  without 
wine.  The  wine  must  be  good  wine,  however. 

Abundance  in  not  the  only  merit  of  the  fare  here.  It  is 
also  of  the  most  delicate  quality.  When  one  eats  well,  one 


96  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

is  in  a  good  humor,  one  regards  good  fortune  with  greater 
joy  and  evil  fortune  with  greater  equanimity,  and  one  feels 
well-disposed  toward  one's  neighbors.  Gluttony  is  a  mon- 
strous thing  in  a  woman,  but  to  love  good  eating  to  some 
extent  is  as  much  a  merit  as  it  is  to  be  intelligent  or  well- 
dressed  ;  without  taking  into  account  that  simple  and  deli- 
cate food  preserves  the  health,  and,  as  a  consequence, 
youth,  the  freshness  of  the  complexion,  and  the  roundness 
of  the  contours.  Let  my  figure  testify  to  this.  Marie  Sapo- 
genikoff  was  right  in  saying  that  a  figure  like  mine  was 
worthy  of  a  more  beautiful  face  ;  and  observe  that  I  am  far 
from  being  ugly.  At  thirteen  I  was  too  large, and  everyone 
thought  me  sixteen.  At  present  I  am  slender,  but  fully 
developed,  remarkably  rounded,  perhaps  too  much  so.  I 
compare  myself  with  all  the  statues  I  see,  and  I  find  none 
of  them  with  contours  as  rounded,  or  with  hips  as  large,  as 
mine.  Is  this  a  defect?  The  shoulders,  however,  require 
a  slightly  fuller  curve. 

At  the  station  Grousskoe  we  were  met  by  two  carriages, 
six  peasant-servants,  and  my  good-for-nothing  brother. 
Paul  is  tall  of  stature,  and  rather  stout ;  but  he  is  beautiful 
as  a  Roman  statue. 

We  arrived  at  Chapatowka,  after  a  drive  of  an  hour  and 
a  half,  during  which  I  could  detect  the  existence  of  much 
petty  rivalry  and  spite  on  my  father's  side  toward  the  Ba- 
banines.  I  held  my  head  high  and  kept  my  brother  in  check, 
who,  indeed,  was  enchanted  to  see  me.  I  will  not  take 
part  with  either  side.  I  need  to  be  on  good  terms  with  my 
father. 

The  house  is  small,  and  consists  of  a  single  story.  It  has 
a  large  garden,  not  very  well  kept.  The  women  of  the 
peasantry  are  remarkably  well-formed,  pretty,  and  piquante 
in  their  costume,  that  follows  every  contour  of  the  figure 
and  allows  the  leg  to  be  seen  as  far  as  the  knee. 

My  Aunt   Marie   received  us  on  the  steps.     After  I  had 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  AtAKlE  BASHKlRTSEFF.  97 

taken  a  bath  we  went  in  to  dinner.  I  had  several  skirmishes 
with  Paul.  He  tries  to  pique  me,  without  meaning  it,  per- 
haps, and  only  in  obedience  to  the  impulse  given  him  by 
my  father.  I  put  him  haughtily  in  his  place,  however,  and 
it  is  he  who  is  humbled  when  he  sought  to  humble  me.  I 
can  read  what  is  in  the  depths  of  his  heart :  Incredulity 
as  to  my  success  and  petty  resentment  in  regard  to  our 
relative  positions  in  the  world.  The  only  name  they  give 
me  here  is  "  Queen."  My  father  seeks  to  dethrone  me,  but 
I  will  make  him  yield  to  my  power.  I  know  his  nature, 
for  he  and  I  are  alike  in  many  things. 

Thursday,  August  15  (August  3). — I  was  pacing  slowly  up 
and  down,  leaning  on  my  brother  Paul's  arm,  and  my 
thoughts  idly  wandering,  when,  in  passing  under  the  trees 
whose  interlaced  branches  formd  a  green  canopy  above 
that  almost  touched  our  heads,  it  occurred  to  me  to  think 

what  A would  say  if  he  were  walking  here  with  me  and 

I  were  leaning  on  his  arm.  He  would  say,  bending  slightly 
toward  me,  in  those  soft  and  penetrating  tones  he  kept  for 
me  alone,  "  How  happy  I  am,  and  how  much  I  love  you  ! " 

No  words  could  give  an  idea  of  the  tenderness  of  his 
accents  in  speaking  to  me,  in  saying  those  things  that  were 
meant  for  me — alone.  Those  tiger-cat  manners,  those 
burning  glances  and  those  .enchanting  tones,  veiled  and 
vibrating,  that  murmured  endearing  words  as  if  they  were  a 
complaint  or  a  supplication — so  humble,  so  passionate,  so 
gentle  were  they — were  for  me  alone  ! 

But  it  was  a  superficial  tenderness,  that  meant  i.othing  ; 
and  if  he  looked  at  me  tenderly,  it  was  because  this  was  his 
natural  expression,  as  there  are  persons  who  appear  always 
eager,  others  who  appear  always  astonished,  and  others 
vexed,  when  they  are  none  of  these  things  in  reality. 

Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  know  the  truth  in  regard  to  alt 
of  this !  I  should  like  to  return  to  Rome  married,  other- 


98  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFP.         [1876. 

wise  it  would  be  a  humiliation.  But  I  have  no  desire  to 
marry.  I  want  to  remain  free,  and,  above  all,  I  want  to 
study.  I  have  discovered  the  right  path  at  last. 

And,  frankly  speaking,  to  marry  in  order  to  spite  A 

would  be  a  piece  of  stupidity. 

That  is  not  the  question,  however,  but  I  wish  to  live  as 
other  women  live. 

I  am  dissatisfied  with  myself  to-night,  without  knowing 
exactly  why. 

....  We  had  no  sooner  reached  the  open  country  than 
my  father  suddenly  asked  me  : 

"  Well,  are  we  going  to  have  a  skirmish  to-day,  as  we  had 
yesterday? " 

"  Just  as  you  choose  !  "  I  answered. 

He  took  me  brusquely  in  his  arms,  wrapped  his  cloak 
around  me,  and  rested  my  head  on  his  shoulder. 

I  closed  my  eyes ;  that  is  my  way  of  showing  tenderness. 

We  remained  thus  for  a  few  moments. 

Then  I  begun  to  talk  of  foreign  countries — of  Rome,  and 
of  the  pleasures  of  society,  taking  good  care  to  make  him 
understand  that  our  position  there  is  a  good  one  ;  I  spoke 
of  Mgr.  de  Fallous,  the  Baron  Visconti,  and  the  Pope.  I 
enlarged,  then,  on  the  society  of  Poltava. 

"  To  spend  one's  life  losing  money  at  cards,"  I  exclaimed  ; 
"  to  ruin  one's-self  in  the  heart  of  a  province  drinking  cham- 
pagne in  taverns  ;  to  lead  a  purely  animal  existence  and  let 
one's  faculties  rust  in  inaction.  Whatever  one  does,  one 
should  always  keep  good  company." 

"  Come  !  you  seem  to  want  to  insinuate  that  I  keep  bad 
company,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"I?  No,  indeed!  I  speak  only  in  general  terms;  I 
allude  to  no  one  in  particular." 

I  dwelt  so  long  upon  the  subject,  that  at  last  he  asked  me 
what  a  large  apartment  in  Nice,  in  which  one  could  give 
entertainments,  would  cost. 


1876-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAStlKIRTSEFF.  99 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  if  I  should  go  settle  down  there 
for  the  winter,  the  position  would  be  a  different  one." 

"  Whose  position  ?  " 

"  That  of -the  birds  of  the  air,"  he  answered,  laughing,  as 
if  piqued. 

"  My  position  ?  "  I  said.  "  Yes,  that  is  true  ;  but  Nice  is 
a  disagreeable  city.  Why  could  you  not  come  this  winter 
to  Rome  ?  " 

"  I  ?     H'm  !  well,  h'm  !  " 

All  the  same,  the  first  seed  is  sown,  and  it  has  fallen  on 
good  ground.  What  I  fear  is  the  influence  of  others.  I 
must  accustom  this  man  to  my  society,  render  myself  agree- 
able to  him,  necessary  to  him,  so  that  my  Aunt  T may 

find  a  barrier  raised  between  her  brother  and  her  evi! 
influences. 

Wednesday,  August  23  {August  n). — I  have  written  almost 
as  much  in  detail  to  mamma  as  1  have  written  in  my  journal. 
That  will  do  her  more  good  than  all  the  medicines  in  the 
world.  I  pretend  to  be  enchanted,  but  I  am  not  so,  as  yet. 
I  have  related  everything  exactly  as  it  happened,  but  I  am 
not  sure  of  my  success  until  the  end  of  the  story.  In  fine, 
we  shall  see ;  God  is  good. 

Pacha  is  my  real  cousin — the  son  of  my  father's  sister. 
This  man  puzzles  me.  This  morning,  in  speaking  of  my 
father,  I  remarked  that  children  criticise  their  parents' 
actions,  and  when  they  marry  and  have  children  of  their 
own,  do  the  very  things  themselves  they  disapproved  of  in 
their  parents. 

"  That  is  perfectly  true,"  he  said  ;  "  but  my  children  will 
not  criticise  me,  for  I  shall  never  marry." 

After  a  moment's  silence  I  said  :  "  Every  young  person 
says  the  same  thing." 

"Yes,  but  in  my  case  it  is  different." 

"  And  why  so  ?  " 


too  Jd URNAL  $F  MARIE  BASHKIR TSEFF.          [1876. 

"Because  I  am  twenty-two  years  old,  and  I  have  never 
yet  been  in  love ;  I  have  never  cast  a  second  glance  at 
any  woman." 

"  That  is  quite  natural.  Before  the  age  of -twenty-two 
.one  has  no  right  to  fall  in  love." 

"  What !  and  the  boys  who  fall  in  love  at  fourteen  or 
fifteen  ?" 

"That  sentiment  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  love." 

"  That  may  be  so,  but  I  am  not  like  others.  I  am  pas- 
sionate ;  I  am  haughty,  that  is — I  mean  to  say  that  I  respect 
myself  ;  and  then — " 

"  But  all  those  qualities  you  mention  are  good  ones." 

"  Good  ones?" 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

Afterwards  he  remarked,  apropos  of  something  I  do  not 
remember,  that  if  his  mother  were  to  die  he  would  lose  his 
reason. 

"Yes,  for  a  time  ;  and  then — " 

"Oh,  no  ;  I  should  lose  my  reason  ;  I  know  it." 

"For  a  time;  every  feeling  yields  eventually  to  newer 
impressions." 

"Then  you  deny  the  eternity  of  the  feelings  ?" 

"  Decidedly." 

"  It  is  strange,  Moussia,"  he  said  to  me,  "  how  quickly 
one  forms  an  attachment  when  one  is  free  from  other  ties. 
The  day  before  yesterday  I  called  you  Maria  Constantinovna  ; 
yesterday  Mademoiselle  Moussia,  and  to-day — " 

"  Moussia,  simply,  as  I  told  you  to  do." 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  we  had  always  lived  together  ;  your 
manners  are  so  simple  and  engaging." 

"Are  they  not?" 

....  My  father  was  waiting  for  us  in  the  colonnade. 

"  Well,  did  I  deceive  you  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Do  I  look  badly 
in  a  riding-habit  ?  Ask  Pacha  how  I  ride.  Do  I  look 
well  ? " 


1876-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAS1IK1RTSEFF.  lot 

"  Yes,  very  well — h'm  ;  very  well,  indeed." 

He  examined  me  with  satisfaction. 

I  am  very  far  from  regretting  having  brought  thirty  gowns 
with  me  ;  my  father  is  to  be  won  over  only  through  his 
vanity. 

At  this  moment  M arrived,  with  his   luggage  and  a 

servant.  When  he  saluted  me  I  responded  with  the  custom- 
ary compliments,  and  then  went  to  change  my  dress,  saying 
I  would  return. 

I  returned  attired  in  a  gown  of  Oriental  gauze,  with  a* 
train  two  yards  long,  a  silk  bodice  open  in  front,  a  la  Louis 
XV.,  and  fastened  with  a  large  white  bow.  The  petticoat 
was  in  one  piece,  and  the  train  was  a  square  one. 

M spoke  of  dress,  and  admired  mine. 

They  call  him  stupid,  yet  he  can  talk  on  every  subject — 
music,  art,  science.  It  is  true  that  it  is  I  who  do  all  the 
talking,  and  he  does  nothing  but  answer,  "You  are  per- 
fectly right  ;  it  is  quite  true." 

I  was  silent  about  my  studies,  fearing  to  frighten  him,  but 
I  was  provoked  into  speaking  of  them  at  table.  I  used  a 
Latin  quotation,  and  discussed  classic  literature  and  the 
modern  imitations  of  it  with  the  doctor. 

They  all  cried  out  that  I  was  wonderful  ;  that  there  was 
nothing  about  which  I  could  not  talk — no  subject  of  conver- 
sation in  which  I  did  not  find  myself  at  home. 

Papa  made  heroic  efforts  to  conceal  his  pride.  Finally  a 
poulet  aux  truffes  started  a  culinary  discussion,  during  which 

I  displayed  a  knowledge  of  gastronomy  that  made  M 

open  his  mouth  and  eyes  with  still  greater  amazement. 

And  then  putting  into  practice  my  powers  of  sophistry,  I 
went  on  to  give  my  views  in  regard  to  the  advantages  of 
good  cooking,  sustaining  that  it  made  men  virtuous. 

After  dinner  we  went  upstairs.  The  rooms  are  very 
large,  especially  the  ball-room  ;  the  piano  was  placed  there 
only  yesterday. 


102  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

I  played.  Poor  Kapitanenko  made  the  most  desperate 
gestures  to  prevent  Paul  from  talking. 

"  Mon  Dieu,"  cried  the  good  man,  "  I  forget  while  I  listen 
that  I  'have  been  vegetating  here  in  a  province  for  the  last 
six  years  ;  I  begin  to  live  again  !  " 

When  I  had  finished  "  Le  Ruisseau  "  they  all  kissed  my 
hand. 

Papa  sat  on  a  sofa  with  half-closed  eyes.  The  Princess 
.worked  on  at  her  embroidery  without  speaking.  She  is  a 
good  sort  of  woman,  though. 

When  the  others  were  gone  I  said  to  my  father:  "  This 
is  the  way  we  shall  live  after  we  leave  Russia.  You  will 
come  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  think  of  it  ;  yes — perhaps." 

Friday,  August  25  {August  13). — My  father  proposed  an 
excursion  to  Pavlovska,  his  other  estate.  He  is  very  good 
to  me,  but  to-day  I  was  extremely  nervous,  and  scarcely 
spoke ;  the  least  attempt  at  speech  threatened  to  make  me 
burst  into  tears. 

Thinking,  however,  of  the  effect  this  complete  absence  of 
pomp  and  festivity  would  have  upon  mamma,  I  told  my 
father  I  should  like  to  see  something  of  society  and  amuse- 
ments. 

"Very  well,"  he  answered;  "if  you  wish  it,  it  shall 
be  done.  Shall  I  take  you  to  see  the  wife  of  the 
Prefect?" 

"  Yes." 

"Very  well ;  it  shall  be  done." 

Reassured  on  this  point,  I  was  able  to  inspect  the  work  on 
the  farm  with  a  tranquil  spirit,  and  even  to  enter  into  all  its 
details — something  I  found  not  at  all  amusing,  but  which  I 
thought  I  might  make  use  of  in  the  future  to  astonish  some 
one  by  my  knowledge  on  the  subject,  mixing  up  a  mot  de con- 
noisseur in  such  matters  as  the  planting  of  barley  and  the 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  103 

good  points  of  wheat  with  a  quotation  from  Shakespeare  or 
a  discourse  on  the  Platonic  philosophy. 

You  see  that  I  try  to  derive  some  profit  from  everything. 

Pacha  procured  an  easel  for  me,  and  near  dinner-time  I 
received  two  large  canvases  sent  me  from  Poltava  by  M . 

"  How  do  you  like  M ?  "  asked  papa. 

I  told  him. 

"  Well,"  said  Pacha,  "  I  did  not  like  him  at  all,  at  first, 
and  now  I  like  him  very  much  indeed." 

"  And  me — did  you  like  me  at  first  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"You?    Why?" 

"  Come,  tell  me." 

"  Very  well,  yes  ;  I  liked  you ;  I  expected  to  find  you 
different  ;  I  thought  you  did  not  speak  Russian  ;  that  you 
were  affected,  and — and,  now,  you  see  how  it  is  ! " 

"  It  is  very  well." 

Pacha  grew  enthusiastic,  to  the  point  of  asking  me  to  give 
him  my  likeness  to  wear  in  a  locket  all  his  life. 

"  For  I  love  and  honor  you  as  I  do  no  one  else,"  he  cried. 

The  Princess  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  I  laughed,  and 
offered  my  cousin  my  hand  to  kiss. 

At  first  he  refused,  coloring  deeply,  but  ended  by  obey- 
ing me. 

A  strange  and  untamed  nature  !  This  afternoon  I  spoke 
of  my  contempt  for  humanity. 

"Ah,  that  is  how  it  is  !"  he  cried.  "I  am,  then,  only  a 
dastard — a  wretch  !  " 

And,  flushed  and  trembling,  he  left  the  room  hastily. 

Saturday,  August  26  (August  14). — The  country  is  killing! 

I  with  surprising  rapidity  sketched  two  portraits  to-day — 
my  father's  and  Paul's.  The  whole  thing  occupied  thirty- 
five  minutes. 

My  father,  who  thinks  my  talent  for  painting  something 
to  be  truly  proud  of,  examined  them  and  was  pleased.  As 


104  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

for  me,  I  was  enchanted  ;  for  to  paint  is  to  do  something 
toward  furthering  one  of  my  aims  in  life.  Every  hour  not 
spent  in  that,  or  in  coquetry,  presses  like  a  weight  upon  my 
head.  To  read  ?  No,  to  act ! 

This  morning  my  father  entered  my  apartment.  After  a 
few  commonplace  phrases,  Paul  having  left  the  room,  he 
suddenly  grew  silent,  and  as  I  felt  he  had  something  to  say 
to  me  that  I  too  wished  to  speak  of,  I  remained  purposely 
silent  also,  as  much  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  embarrass- 
ment and  hesitation  as  in  order  to  avoid  broaching  the 
subject  myself. 

"  H'm — well,  then, — what  do  you  say  ? "  he  asked. 

"I,  papa?     Nothing." 

"  H'm  ! — you  said — h'm  ! — that  you  wished  me  to  go 
with  you  to  Rome, — h'm  !  And  how,  then  ?  " 

"  Very  simply." 

"But—" 

He  hesitated,  moving  my  combs  and  brushes  about  from 
one  place  to  another. 

"  But  if  I  should  go  with  you — h'm  !  and  your  mamma — 
she  might  not  come.  And  then — you  see  if  she  did  not 
come — h'm  !  what  then  ?  " 

"  Mamma  ?     Mamma  will  come." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  Besides,  mamma  will  do  anything  I  want  her  to  do.  She 
exists  no  longer;  there  is  only  I." 

Then,  visibly  relieved,  he  put  a  number  of  questions  to 
me,  as  to  the  manner  in  which  mamma  passed  her  time — in 
regard  to  an  infinity  of  things,  in  fact. 

The  Cardinal  is  dying. 

Despicable  man  !     (The  nephew,  I  mean.) 

Tuesday,  August  29  (August  17). — I   dreamed  that  Pierre 

A was  dead.     I  approached  his  bier  and  placed  around 

hrs  neck  a  rosary  of  topazes,  to  which  was  attached  a  cross 


1876.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  105 

of  gold.     No  sooner  had  I   done  this,  however,  than  I  saw 
that  the  dead  man  was  not  Pietro. 

To  dream  of  death  is  a  sign  of  marriage,  I  believe. 

A  young  man  was  in  love  with  a  girl  who  loved  him  in 
return.  After  some  time  he  married  another,  and  when  he 
was  asked  the  reason  of  his  fickleness,  he  answered  : 

"  She  kissed  me, — consequently  she  has  either  kissed 
others,  or  she  will  kiss  them." 

"  He  was  quite  right,"  said  my  uncle  Alexander.  And 
every  man  reasons  in  the  same  way. 

A  mode  of  reasoning  which  is  in  the  highest  degree  un- 
just, but  that  does  not  prevent  me  being  now  shut  up  in  my 
room,  beside  myself  with  rage. 

I  took  it  for  granted  that  they  meant  me.  But  think  of 
the  cause  I  had  for  the  supposition. 

Grant  me,  O  Heaven,  the  power  to  forget !  O  my  God 
have  I  then  committed  a  crime,  that  thou  shouldst  punish 
me  in  this  way? 

That  which  neither  education,  nor  books,  nor  advice  could 
teach  me,  experience  has  taught  me. 

Friday,  September  %  (August  27). — Despicable  fear,  I  shall 
conquer  thee  at  last.  Did  I  not  take  it  into  my  head  yester- 
day to  be  afraid  of  a  gun  ?  It  is  true  that  Paul  had  loaded 
it,  and  that  I  did  not  know  how  large  a  charge  of  powder  he 
might  have  used,  and  that  I  was  unacquainted  with  the  gun. 
It  might  have  gone  off,  and  that  would  be  a  stupid  death  ; 
or,  I  might  be  disfigured  for  life. 

So  much  the  worse  !  It  is  only  the  first  step  that  is  diffi- 
cult. Yesterday  I  fired  at  fifty  paces,  and  to-day  I  fired 
without  any  fear  whatever.  May  God  forgive  me,  but  I 
think  I  hit  the  mark  every  time. 

We  read  Poushkine  aloud  to-day,  and  discussed  the 
passion  of  love. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  be  in  love  to  know  what  it  is  like  !  " 


106  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

I  said  ;  "  Or  perhaps  I  have  already  been  in  love  ?  In  that 
case,  love  is  a  contemptible  thing  that  one  picks  up — in 
order  to  cast  it  away  again." 

"  You  will  never  be  in  love,"  said  my  father. 

"  If  that  should  prove  to  be  the  case,  I  would  thank 
Heaven  for  it,"  I  answered. 

I  wish,  and  I  do  not  wish,  to  love. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I  love.     Yes,  but  an  imaginary  hero. 

And  A ?    I  to  love  him?    No;  is  it  thus  one  loves? 

No.  If  he  were  not  the  nephew  of  the  Cardinal,  and  if  he 
were  not  surrounded  by  priests,  and  monks,  and  ruins,  and — 
the  Pope,  I  should  not  have  loved  him. 

Besides,  what  need  have  I  to  explain?  You  know  all 
better  than  I  do.  You  know  then  that  the  music  at  the 

opera,  with  A in  the  barcaccia,  produced  together  a 

charming  effect,  and  you  ought  to  know  how  great  the 
power  of  music  is.  That  was  an  amusement,  but  it  was  not 
love. 

When,  then,  shall  I  really  love?  I  shall  still  continue  to 
pour  out  on  all  sides  the  superabundance  of  my  affection, 
still  grow  enthusiastic,  still  shed  tears — and  for  creatures 
who  are  less  than  nothing! 

Saturday,  September  9  {August  28). — The  days  are 
passing;  I  am  losing  precious  time,  and  in  the  best  years  of 
my  life. 

What  ennui!  Never  a  witty  saying!  Never  a  polished 
phrase!  Unhappily  I  am  a  pedant,  and  I  love  to  hear  an- 
cient literature  and  the  sciences  discussed.  Find  me  any  of 
this  here  if  you  can !  Cards  and  nothing  else !  I  would 
shut  myself  up  and  read,  but  since  my  object  in  coming 
here  was  to  make  myself  loved,  that  would  be  a  bad  way  to 
set  about  doing  it.  ... 

Thursday,  September  2  (14.) — Here  I  am  still  in  this  de- 


li,6.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHR'IRTSEFF.  107 

tillable  city  of  Poltava!  I  am  more  familiar  with  Kharkoff. 
I  spent  a  year  there  before  going  to  Vienna.  I  remember 
a1!  the  streets  and  all  the  shops.  This  afternoon  at  the  sta- 
tion I  recognized  a  physician  who  had  attended  grand- 
mamma, and  I  went  over  and  spoke  to  him. 

I  long  to  return — there!  "Knowest  thou  the  land  where 
the  orange-tree  blooms?"  Not  Nice,  but  Italy. 

GAVRONZI,  Sunday,  September  17. — While  waiting  for  my 
future  fame  I  went  to  a  hunt,  arrayed  in  masculine  attire, 
and  with  a  game-bag  slung  around  my  shoulder. 

We  set  out,  my  father,  Paul,  the  Prince,  and  I,  at  about 
t\vo  o'clock  in  a  char-a-banc. 

Now  I  find  myself  without  a  word  with  which  to  describe 
our  excursion,  not  knowing  the  name  of — in  fine,  of  any- 
thing pertaining  to  the  chase.  The  brambles,  the  reeds, 
the  shrubs,  the  trees,  were  all  so  thick  that  we  could  hardly 
make  our  way  through  them.  The  branches  brushed 
against  us  on  all  sides,  the  air  was  deliciously  pure,  there 
was  no  sun,  but  a  fine  rain  fell  such  as  is  the  delight  of 
hunters — when  they  feel  warm. 

We  walked,  walked,  walked. 

I  made  the  tour  of  a  small  lake,  armed  with  my  gun,  and 
ready  to  fire,  expecting  at  every  instant  to  see  a  duck  rise. 

But — nothing!  I  was  already  asking  myself  whether  I 
should  fire  at  the  lizards  that  hopped  about  my  feet,  or  at 
Michel,  who  walked  behind  me,  and  whose  admiring  gaze 
I  could  feel  fixed  upon  me  in  my  masculine  attire. 

I  chose  the  happy  medium  and  fired  at  a  crow  (killing 
him  instantly)  that  was  perched  upon  the  topmost  branch 
of  an  oak,  suspecting  nothing,  the  less  so  as  his  attention  was 
arrested  by  my  father  and  Michel,  who  had  thrown  them- 
selves on  the  ground  in  a  clear  space  in  the  wood. 

I  pulled  out  its  tail-feathers  and  made  myself  an  aigrette. 

The  others  did  not  shoot  once;  they  did  nothing  but  walk. 


lo8  'OURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

Paul   killed   a   thrush,    and   that  was  the  whole  of  the 
chase. 

Friday r,  September  22. — O  Rome!  the  Pincio,  rising  like 
an  island  from  the  plain  traversed  by  aqueducts;  the  Porta 
del  Popolo;  the  obelisk,  the  churches  of  Cardinal  -Gastolo, 
at  either  side  of  the  entrance  to  the  Corso;  the  Corso  itself, 
the  Palace  of  the  Republic  of  Venice;  and  those  dark  and 
narrow  streets,  those  palaces  black  with  the  dust  of  cen- 
turies, the  ruins  of  a  little  temple  to  Minerva,  and  finally 
the  Coliseum.  I  think  I  see  them  all  before  me  now;  I 
close  my  eyes  and  I  walk  through  the  streets  of  the  city,  I 
visit  the  ruins,  I  see — 

It  is  not  with  me  as  it  is  with  those  who  say  "Out  of 
sight,  out  of  mind."  A  thing  is  no  sooner  out  of  my  sight 
than  it  acquires  for  me  a  double  value;  I  dwell  upon  its 
minutest  details,  I  admire  it,  I  love  it. 

I  have  traveled  a  great  deal;  I  have  seen  many  cities: 
but  two  of  them  only  have  raised  me  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
enthusiasm. 

The  first  is  Baden-Baden,  where  I   spent  two  summers 
when  I  was  a  child;  I  can  still  remember  those  delicious 
gardens.     The  second  is  Rome — 
I  love  Rome,  only  Rome. 

And  St.  Peter's!  St.  Peter's,  where  a  ray  of  light  enter- 
ing through  the  roof  falls  upon  the  floor  and  casts  there 
shadows  and  tracks  of  light  as  regular  as  the  architecture  of 
its  columns  and  altars — a  ray  of  light  that,  by  the  aid  of 
shadows  only,  creates  in  the  midst  of  this  marble  temple  a 
temple  of  light. 

With  closed  eyes  I  transport  myself  in  imagination  to 
Rome,  and  it  is  night.  And  to-morrow  the  hippopotamus 
will  come  from  Poltava,  and  I  must  make  myself  beautiful, 
and  I  shall  be  beautiful. 

The  country   has   done  me  a  great  deal   of  good;    my 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  109 

complexion  was  never  fresher  nor  more  transparent  than 
now. 

Rome! — and  I  will  not  goto  Rome!  Why?  Because  I 
will  not  go.  And  if  you  knew  what  it  has  cost  me  to  come 
to  this  resolution,  you  would  pity  me.  Indeed  I  am 
already  in  tears. 

The  first  touch jof  cold  weather  has  compelled  me  to  make 
use  of  my  fur  coat.  Kept  from  the  air  as  it  has  been,  it 
has  preserved  the  odor  of  Rome,  and  this  odor — this  gar- 
ment!— 

Have  you  ever  observed  that  it  needs  but  a  perfume,  a 
strain  of  music,  a  color,  to  transport  one  in  imagination  to 
any  particular  place?  To  spend  the  winter  in  Paris — 
oh,  no! 

Thursday,  September  28. — I  cry  with  ennui.  I  wish  to 
leave  this  place.  I  am  unhappy  here.  I  am  losing  my 
time,  my  life !  My  faculties  are  rusting  in  inaction.  I  am 
exasperated— yes,  that  is  the  word. 

Friday,  September  29. — I  was  in  despair  yesterday,  for  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  chained  down  here  for  life.  The 
thought  of  this  exasperated  me,  and  I  wept  bitter  tears. 

Tuesday,  October  17. —  .  .  .  "Pacha,"  I  said,  "what 
would  you  do  to  the  person  who  had  wounded  me — cruelly 
wounded  me?" 

"I  would  kill  him,"  he  responded  quite  simply. 

"You  use  very  fine  words,  but  you  are  laughing,  Pacha." 

"And  you?" 

"I  have  been  called  a  devil,  a  hurricane,  a  demon,  a  tem- 
pest; I  am  all  this  since  yesterday."  .  .  . 

When  I  grew  a  little  calmer  I  began  to  give  expression 
to  the  most  contradictory  opinions  regarding  love. 

My  cousin  has  thoughts  ideally  lofty,  and  Dante  might 
have  borrowed  from  him  his  divine  love  for  Beatrice. 


no  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

"I  shall  doubtless  fall  in  love,"  he  said,  "but  I  will 
never  marry." 

"What  is  that  you  are  saying,  young  man?  Do  you 
know  that  one  deserves  a  beating  for  such  words?" 

"Because,"  he  continued,  "I  desire  my  love  to  endure 
forever — at  least  in  my  imagination — in  all  its  divine  purity 
and  strength.  Marriage  often  kills  love,  just  as  it  may  give 
it  being." 

"Oh!  oh!"  I  cried,  indignantly. 

"He  is  quite  right,"  said  his  mother,  while  the  bashful  ora- 
tor blushed  and  grew  confused,  ashamed  of  his  own  words. 

All  this  time  I  was  looking  at  myself  in  the  glass,  cutting 
the  hair  over  my  forehead,  which  had  grown  too  long. 

"There,"  I  said  to  the  "young  man,"  throwing  him  a 
handful  of  reddish  gold  hair,  "I  will  give  you  that  as  a 
remembrance." 

Not  only  did  he  take  it,  but  his  voice  trembled  and  he 
looked  agitated  as  he  did  so;  and  when  I  would  have  taken 
it  from  him  he  gave  me  a  pleading  look,  like  a  child  who 
has  got  hold  of  a  toy  that  appears  to  him  a  treasure,  and 
that  he  fears  to  lose. 

I  gave  my  cousin  "Corinne"  to  read,  after  which  he  went 
away. 

Corinne  and  Lord  Melvil  were  walking  across  the  bridge 
of  Saint  Ange.  "It  was  in  crossing  this  bridge,"  said  Lord 
Melvil,  '  'returning  from  the  Capitol,  that  my  thoughts  for 
the  first  time  dwelt  seriously  on  you."  I  do  not  know  what 
there  is  in  those  words  to  affect  me  so  powerfully,  but  when 
I  read  them  yesterday  they  actually  made  me  feel  faint. 
And  every  time  I  come  across  them,  on  opening  the  book,  I 
have  the  same  feeling. 

Has  not  some  one  said  words  like  those  to  me?    • 

There  is  a  sort  of  magic  in  some  simple  word,  perhaps  on 
account  of  their  very  simplicity.  Or  is  their  power  derived 
rather  from  association? 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  m 

Monday,  October  23. — Yesterday  we  got  into  a  coupe 
drawn  by  six  horses  and  set  out  for  Poltava. 

The  journey  was  a  gay  one.  The  tears  shed  on  leaving 
the  paternal  roof  caused  a  general  effusion  of  sentiment, 
and  Pacha  declared  he  was  madly  in  love. 

"I  swear  that  it  is  true,"  he  cried,  "but  I  will  not  say 
with  whom." 

"If  it  is  not  with  me,"  I  said,  "you  shall  receive  my 
malediction." 

I  complained  that  my  feet  were  cold;  he  took  off  his 
pelisse  and  wrapped  it  about  them. 

"Pacha,  swear  to  me  that  you  will  tell  me  the  truth." 

"I  swear." 

"With  whom  are  you  in  love?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"It  concerns  me  to  know;  we  are  relations.     And  then, 
I  am  curious;  and  then — and  then — it  amuses  me." 
'"You  see,  it  amuses  you!" 

"Without  doubt,  but  you  must  not  take  the  word  in  a 
bad  sense;  you  are  a  very  good  fellow." 

"You  see  you  are  laughing;  you  would  ridicule  me  after- 
wards." 

"Here  you  have  my  hand  and  word  that  I  will  not  ridi- 
cule you."  But  there  was  a  smile  upon  my  face  while  I 
spoke. 

"With  whom  are  you  in  love?" 

" With  you." 

"Truly?" 

"On  my  word  of  honor.  I  am  not  given  to  many  words, 
as  they  say  in  novels.  Must  I  fall  upon  my  knees  and  talk 
a  lot  of  nonsense  to  prove  it  to  you?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  following  in  the  footsteps 
of  some  one  I  know." 

"As  you  will,  Moussia;  but  I  am  speaking  the  truth." 

"But  that  is  folly." 


112  jo  URNAL  OF  MARIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.          [ 1 876. 

"Oh,  not  a  doubt  of  it,  that  is  what  pleases  me!  I  love 
without  hope,  which  is  what  I  needed.  I  needed  to  suffer, 
to  torment  myself,  and  then,  when  the  object  of  my  passion 
is  gone  away,  I  shall  have  something  to  dream  about,  some- 
thing to  regret.  I  shall  endure  tortures,  that  will  be  my 
happiness." 

"Young  man !" 

"Young  man?     Young  man?" 

"But  we  are  brother  and  sister." 

"No,  cousins." 

"It  is  the  same  thing." 

"Oh,  no!" 

Then  I  set  myself  to  work  to  tease  my  lover — always  the 
lover  I  do  not  want. 

Tuesday,  October  24. — I  never  had  a  childhood,  but  the 
house  where  I  lived  when  I  was  a  child,  if  not  dear  to  me, 
possesses  an  attraction  for  me.  I  am  familiar  with  every- 
thing and  everybody  there.  The  servants,  grown  old  in  our 
service,  are  surprised  to  see  me  so  tall,  and  I  should  enjoy 
many  sweet  recollections  if  it  were  not  for  the  anxieties  that 
poison  my  mind.  .  .  . 

My  -Agrippine  gown  had  a  great  success.  I  walked  up 
and  down  while  I  sang  to  conquer  the  timidity  that  always 
seizes  me  when  I  sing. 

Why  write?     What  have  I  to  recount? 

I  must  bore  people  to  death. — Patience! 

Sixtus  V.  was  only  a  swineherd,  and  Sixtus  V.  became 
Pope. 

Sunday,  October  29  (17). — It  is  not  probable  that  I  shall 
ever  again  see  Tcherniakoff.  I  spent  a  long  time  wan- 
dering from  room  to  room,  and  found  a  tender  pleasure  in 
doing  so.  People  laugh  at  those  who  associate  sentiment 
with  pictures  and  articles  of  furniture,  and  who  bid  them 


1876.]         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIK'IRTSEFF.  nj 

farewell  on  going  away;  who  find  friends  in  those  pieces 
of  wood  and  stuff  that  through  their  association  with  us 
receive,  as  it  were,  something  of  our  life,  and  seem  to  be  a 
part  of  our  existence. 

Laugh  then,  if  you  will!  The  finest  feelings  are  the  most 
easily  ridiculed,  and  where  mockery  enters,  delicacy  of 
feeling  disappears. 

\\~t\IncsJay,  November  i. — When  Paul  had  gone  out  I 
found  myself  alone  with  that  excellent  and  admirable  being 
called  Pacha. 

"Then  you  like  me  still?"  I  said. 

"Ah,  Moussia,  how  would  you  have  me  speak  to  you?" 

"Quite  naturally.  Why  this  reserve?  Why  not  be  simple 
and  frank?  I  will  not  laugh  at  you,  and  if  I  should  laugh, 
it  is  only  because  I  am  nervous — nothing  else.  Then  you 
no  longer  like  me?" 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Oh,  because — because — I  don't  remember  now." 

"One  cannot  account  for  those  things." 

"If  you  no  longer  like  me,  you  may  say  so;  you  are 
frank  enough  for  that,  and  I — indifferent  enough.  Come, 
is  it  my  nose?  Or  my  eyes?" 

"One  can  see  that  you  have  never  been  in  love." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  from  the  moment  one  begins  to  look  critically 
at  the  features — to  ask  whether  the  nose  is  more  perfect 
than  the  eyes,  or  the  eyes  more  perfect  than  the  mouth — it 
is  evident  that  one  has  never  been  in  love." 

"That  is  quite  true.     Who  told  it  to  you?" 

"No  one." 

"Ulysses?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  "one  can't  tell  what  it  is  one  likes — I 
will  be  frank  with  you — it  is  your  air,  your  manner,  above 
all  your  disposition." 


H4  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1876. 

"It  is  amiable,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  unless  you  are  acting  a  part,  and  it  would  be 
impossible  to  do  that  at  all  times." 

"Another  truth.     And  my  face?" 

"It  has  beauties — it  is  a  classic  face." 

"Yes,  I  was  aware  of  that.     What  more?" 

"What  more?  There  are  women  one  sees  passing  by  that 
one  calls  beautiful,  but  that  one  does  not  give  a  second 
thought  to.  But  there  are  faces — that  are  beautiful  and 
charming,  that  create  a  lasting  impression,  that  produce  a 
sensation  that  is  delightful  and  agreeable." 

"Precisely  so.     What  else?" 

"How  you  question!" 

"I  want  to  avail  myself  of  this  opportunity  to  learn  a 
little  of  what  people  think  of  me.  I  shall  not  easily  find 
another  whom  I  can  question  in  this  way  without  compro- 
mising myself.  And  how  did  all  that  take  possession  of 
you?  Did  it  come  to  you  suddenly,  or  by  degrees?" 

"  By  degrees." 

"  H'm,  h'm." 

"  That  is  the  best  way  ;  the  impression  is  a  more  lasting 
one.  What  you  conceive  a  sudden  affection  for  you  cease 
to  care  for  as  suddenly,  while  the  affection  that  comes  by 
degrees — " 

"  Endures  forever." 

"  Yes,  forever." 

Our  conversation  lasted  a  long  time,  and  I  began  to  enter- 
tain considerable  respect  for  this  man  whose  affection  for 
me  is  as  reverent  as  a  religion,  and  who  has  never  profaned 
its  purity  by  a  word  or  a  look. 

"  Do  you  like  to  talk  of  love  ? "  I  asked  him  sud- 
denly. 

"  No  ;  to  speak  of  it  with  indifference  is  a  profanation." 

"  It  amuses  one,  though." 

"  Amuses  !  "  he  cried. 


1876]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASltKlRTSEFF.  11$ 

"  Ah,  Pacha,  life  is  a  wretched  affair.  Have  I  ever  been 
in  love? 

"  Never,"  he  answered. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Because  of  your  character.  You  could  love  only  through 
a  caprice — to-day  a  man,  to-morrow  a  gown,  the  day  after 
a  cat." 

"  I  am  delighted  when  people  think  that  of  me.  And 
you,  my  dear  brother,  have  you  ever  been  in  love  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you  so  ;  you  know  it  very  well ;  I  have  told 
you  so." 

"  No,  no,  it  is  not  that  I  am  speaking  of,"  I  said  quickly  ; 
"but  before." 

"  Never." 

"That  is  strange.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  am  deceived 
in  you,  and  that  I  take  you  for  something  better  than  you 
are." 

We  talked  for  a  while  on  indifferent  subjects,  and  then  I 
went  to  my  room.  Here  is  a  man — no,  let  me  not  think  too 
well  of  him  ;  the  disappointment  would  be  too  disagreeable. 
He  told  me  a  short  time  since  that  he  was  going  to  become 
a  soldier. 

"  To  fight  for  glory,  I  tell  you  frankly,"  he  added. 

Well,  these  words,  uttered  out  of  the  depths  of  his  heart, 
half-timidly,  half-daringly,  and  true  as  truth  itself,  have  given 
me  extraordinary  pleasure.  It  may  be  that  I  flatter  myself, 
but  I  imagine  that  ambition  was  a  feeling  hitherto  unknown 
to  him.  I  think  I  see  now  the  effect  produced  upon  him 
by  a  few  words  I  let  fall  in  regard  to  ambition,  one  day, 
while  I  was  combing  my  hair.  The  "  young  man  "  *  suddenly 
rose  to  his  feet  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  floor. 

"I  must  do  something  ;  I  must  do  something,"  he  cried. 

Tuesday,  November  7. — I  have  broken  my  looking-glass  ! 
*  Homme  vert,  in  the  original. 


Ii6  JOURNAL  Of  MARIE  BASHKlRTSEFF.          [1876. 

That  portends  some  misfortune.  This  superstitious  thought 
freezes  me  with  terror.  I  look  out  of  the  window,  and  all  I 
see  is  frozen  too.  It  is  long  since  I  beheld  a  scene  like  this. 

Pacha,  with  the  eagerness  natural  to  the  young  to  show 
new-comers  novelties,  ordered  a  little  sleigh  to  be  got  ready, 
and  took  me  out  in  triumph  for  a  drive.  The  sleigh  is  very 
impertinent  to  call  itself  by  that  name,  for  it  is  nothing  mote 
than  a  few  miserable  pieces  of  wood  nailed  together,  stuffed 
with  hay,  and  covered  with  carpet.  The  horse,  being  quite 
close  to  us,  threw  the  snow  into  our  faces,  as  well  as  into 
my  sleeves,  my  slippers,  and  my  eyes. 

"  You  asked  me  to  go  with  you  to  Rome,"  said  the  young 
man,  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  and  not  through  a  caprice.  You  would  confer  a 
favor  upon  me  by  coming — and  you  will  not  !  You  do 
nothing  for  me  ;  for  whom,  then,  would  you  do  anything  ?  '* 

"  Oh,  you  know  very  well  why  I  cannot  go." 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Because — I  love  you." 

"  But  you  would  render  me  so  great  a  service  by 
coming ! " 

"  I  render  you  a  service  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  " 

"No,  I  cannot  go.  I  will  think  of  you  from  afar.  And 
if  you  knew."  he  continued,  in  gentle  and  touching  accents, 
"  if  you  knew  what  I  sometimes  suffer, — one  must  possess 
as  much  moral  courage  as  I  do  to  appear  always  indifferent 
and  always  calm.  When  I  see  you  no  longer — " 

"  You  will  forget  me." 

"  Never." 

"  But — in  that  case?" 

My  voice  had  lost  all  trace  of  raillery.     I  was  touched. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  only  know  that  this 
state  of  things  makes  me  too  miserable." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  " 


1876]         JO  URN  A  L  OF  AfA  RIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.  1 1 7 

I  quickly  recovered  myself.  This  pity  from  me  was  an 
insult. 

Why  is  it  so  delightful  to  listen  to  the  confession  of  the 
sufferings  of  which  one  is  the  cause  !  The  more  unhappy 
any  one  is  for  love  of  you  the  happier  you  are. 

"  Come  with  us,"  I  said.  "  My  father  does  not  wish  to 
take  Paul.  Come  with  us." 

«  i_» 

"  You  cannot — I  know  it.  Enough  !  I  will  ask  you  no 
more." 

I  assumed  an  inquisitorial  air,  like  one  who  is  preparing 
to  be  amused  by  the  confession  of  a  folly. 

"  Then  I  have  the  honor  of  being  your  first  love,"  I  said. 
"  Admirable  ! — You  are  a  deceiver." 

"  Because  my  voice  does  not  change  its  tone,  and  because 
I  do  not  shed  tears  ?  I  have  an  iron  will,  that  is  all." 

"  And  I  wanted  to  give  you — something." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  This." 

And  I  showed  him  a  little  image  of  the  Virgin  suspended 
around  my  neck  by  a  white  ribbon. 

"  Give  it  to  me." 

"You  do  not  deserve  it. 

"Ah,  Moussia,"  he  cried  with  a  sigh,  "  I  assure  you  that 
I  do  deserve  it.  What  I  feel  for  you  is  like  the  attachment 
of  a  dog  for  its  master,  a  devotion  without  limit." 

"  Come  nearer,  young  man,  and  I  will  give  you  my  bene- 
diction." 

"  Your  benediction  ? " 

"Yes.  If  I  have  made  you  tall:  in  this  way,  it  is  because 
I  desire  to  know  what  those  who  are  in  love  feel,  for  sup- 
pose I  should  take  it  into  my  head  to  fall  in  love  some  day, 
I  should  want  to  recognize  the  symptoms." 

"  Give  me  that  image,"  said  the  young  man,  without 
removing  his  eyes  from  it. 


n8        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.       [1876. 

He  knelt  on  the  chair  on  the  back  _  of  which  I  was  lean- 
ing, and  tried  to  take  the  image  in  his  hand,  but  I  stopped 
him. 

"No,  no,  around  your  neck,"  I  said. 

And  I  put  the  ribbon  around  his  neck,  warm  as  it  still 
was  from  contact  with  mine. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  cried,  "  thanks  for  that  !  thank  you  !  thank 
you  !" 

And  he  kissed  my  hand  only,  for  the  first  time. 

Wednesday,  November  8. — This  evening  I  sat  do\vn  at  the 
piano  to  play  the  "  Reading  of  the  Letter  of  Venus,"  a 
charming  morceau  from  "  La  Belle  Helene." 

But  "  La  Belle  Helene  "  is  a  ravishing  opera.  Offenbach 
had  only  just  begun  his  career  when  he  wrote  it,  and  had 
not  yet  debased  his  genius  by  writing  insignificant  oper- 
ettas. 

I  played  for  a  long  time — I  cannot  now  remember  what — 
but  something,  I  remember,  that  was  slow  and  passionate, 
tender  and  charming,  as  only  Mendelssohn's  "  Songs  Without 
Words,"  well  rendered,  can  be. 

Afterwards  I  drank  four  cups  of  tea,  while  we  talked 
about  music. 

"  Music  exercises  a  powerful  influence  over  me,"  said  the 
"young  man."  "I  feel  something  altogether  strange  while  I 
listen  to  it — it  produces  a — sentimental  effect  upon  me,  and 
I  say  then  things  that  I  should  never  dare  to  say  otherwise." 

"Music  is  a  traitress,  Pacha;  distrust  her,  she  will  cause 
you  to  do  a  great  many  things  you  would  not  do  in  your 
calmer  moments.  She  seizes  hold  of  you,  twines  herself 
around  you,  makes  you  lose  your  senses — and  then  it  is 
terrible  ! " 

Afterward  I  spoke  of  Rome.  Pacha  listened  and  sighed, 
in  his  corner  ;  and  when  he  approached  the  light  the 
expression  on  his  countenance  told  me  more  plainly  than 


1876.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  119 

all  the  words  in  the  world  could  have  done,  what  the  poor 
fellow  suffered. 

(Observe  this  ferocious  vanity,  this  eagerness  to  ascertain 
the  extent  of  the  ravages  one  has  caused  !  I  am  a  vulgar 
coquette,  or — no,  I  am  a  woman,  nothing  more.) 

"  We  are  rather  melancholy  this  evening,"  I  said  softly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "your  playing,  and  then — I  don't 
know  what  the  matter  is,  but  I  think  I  have  a  fever." 

"  Go  to  sleep,  my  friend,"  I  said  ;  "  I  am  going  to  my 
room  ;  but  first  help  me  to  carry  my  books." 

Thursday^  November  g. — My  sojourn  here  will  at  least 
have  given  me  an  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  splendid  literature  of  my  country.  But  what  do  her 
poets  and  writers  speak  of?  The  South. 

And  first  let  me  mention  Gogol,  our  humoristic  star.  His 
description  of  Rome  made  me  shed  tears,  and  sigh  ;  one 
can  form  no  idea  of  him  without  reading  his  works. 

Some  day  they  will  be  translated  ;  and  those  who  have 
had  the  happiness  to  see  Rome  will  then  understand  my 
emotion. 

Oh,  when  shall  I  leave  this  country  ? — gray,  cold,  arid, 
even  in  summer,  even  in  the  sunshine.  The  foliage  is  sickly, 
and  the  sky  is  less  blue  than — down yonde r. 

Friday. — I  have  been  reading  until  just  now.  I  am  dis- 
gusted with  my  diary — troubled,  disheartened. 

Rome. — I  can  say  nothing  more.  I  remained  fully  five 
minutes  with  my  pen  in  my  hand,  without  knowing  what  to 
write,  my  heart  was  so  full.  But  the  time  is  approaching, 

and  I  shall  see  A again.  The  thought  of  seeing  A 

again  fills  me  with  terror.  And  yet  I  believe  that  I  do  not 
love  him,  I  am  even  certain  of  it.  But  that  memory,  my 
chagrin,  my  uncertainty  regarding  the  future,  the  fear  of 

being  slighted  !  A '  How  often  this  name  returns  to 

my  thoughts  and  htnv  hateful  it  is  to  me  ! 


120  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1876. 

You  think  T  wish  to  die  ?  Fools  that  you  are  !  I  love 
life  as  it  is,  and  the  vexations,  the  tortures,  the  tears  that 
God  has  sent  me — I  bless  them  and  I  am  happy. 

In  fact,  I  have  so  accustomed  myself  to  the  idea  of  being 
unhappy,  that  when  I  think  over  my  troubles  alone  in  my 
room,  and  far  away  from  the  world,  I  say  to  myself  that  per- 
haps after  all  I  am  not  so  much  to  be  pitied. 

Why  weep  then  ? 

Saturday,  November  n. — This  morning  at  eight  o'clock 
I  left  Gavronzi,  and  not  without  some  slight  emotion 
caused — by  regret  at  leaving  the  place  ?  No,  by  the  inter- 
ruption of  a  habit. 

The  servants  were  all  assembled  in  the  courtyard,  and  I 
gave  to  each  one  of  them  some  money,  and  to  the  house- 
keeper a  gold  bracelet. 

Wednesday,  November  15. — Last  Sunday  I  set  out  on  my 
homeward  journey,  accompanied  by  my  father.  During 
my  last  two  days  in  Russia,  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Prince 
Michel  and  the  others. 

There  was  no  one  at  the  station  to  see  me  off  but  the 
members  of  my  own  family,  but  there  were  several  strangers 
there  who  looked  with  curiosity  at  our  "  traps." 

Alexander,  Paul,  and  Pacha  entered  the  compartment 
with  us  ;  the  ringing  of  the  third  bell  announced  the  de- 
parture of  the  train,  and  they  all  crowded  around  me. 

"  Paul  !  Paul  !  "  cried  the  young  man,  "  let  me  at  least 
say  good-by." 

"  Let  him  come  here,"  I  said. 

He  kissed  my  hand,  and  I  kissed  him  on  the  cheek,  near 
the  eye.     It  is  the  custom  in  Russia,  but  I  have  never  been* 
able  to  approve  of  it. 

We  were  only  waiting  for  the  bell  to  sound,  and  it  did 
not  delay  long. 


1877  ]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIS  6ASHKJRTSEFF.  121 

"  Well  ?  "   I  said. 

"  There  is  still  time  enough,"  said  the  young  man. 

The  train  began  to  move  slowly,  and  Pacha  began  to  talk 
very  fast,  but  without  knowing  a  word  of  what  he  was 
saying. 

"  Good-by,  good-by,"  I  cried,  "jump  off." 

"  Yes,  farewell,  good-by." 

And  he  jumped  on  to  the  platform  after  having  once 
more  kissed  my  hand — the  kiss  of  a  faithful  and  obedient 
dog. 

"  Come,  come,"  cried  my  father  from  our  compartment, 
for  we  were  in  the  passageway  of  the  coach. 

I  returned  to  him,  but  I  was  so  troubled  at  the  spectacle 
of  grief  of  which  I  was  the  cause,  that  I  lay  down  at  once 
and  closed  my  eyes  to  think  and  dream  at  my  ease. 

Poor  Pacha  !  Dear  and  noble  boy  !  If  I  regret  anything 
I  leave  behind  me  in  Russia,  it  is  this  heart  of  gold,  this 
loyal  character,  this  upright  spirit. 

Am  I  really  troubled  ?  Yes.  As  if  it  were  possible  to  be 
so  insensible  as  not  to  feel  a  just  pride  in  possessing  such  a 
friend. 


1877. 

NICE,  Wednesday,  January  17. — When  shall  I  know,  then, 
what  this  passion  called  love  is,  of  which  people  talk  so 
much  ? 

I  could  have  loved  A ,  but  now  I  despise  him.  The 

Duke  of  H I  loved  extravagantly  when  I  was  a  child — 

a  love  due  to  the  effect  produced  on  an  excitable  imagina- 
tion by  the  wealth,  the  name,  and  the  eccentricities  of  the 
man. 

Tuesday,  January  23. — Last  night  I  was  seized  by  a  fit  of 
despair  that  found  utterance  in  moans,  and  that  finally 


122  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

drove  me  to  throw  the  dining-room  clock  into  the  sea. 
Dina  ran  after  me,  suspecting  some  sinister  design  on  my 
part,  but  I  threw  nothing  into  the  sea  except  the  clock.  It 
was  a  bronze  one — a  Paul,  without  the  Virginia — in  a  very 
becoming  hat,  and  with  a  fishing-rod  in  his  hand.  Dina 
came  back  with  me  into  my  room,  and  seemed  to  be  very 
much  amused  about  the  clock.  I  laughed,  too. 
Poor  clock  ! 

Thursday,  February  i. — Mamma  and  I  went  out  for  an 
airing.  On  reaching  home  I  sat  down  to  read  Livy.  The 
heroes  of  antiquity,  the  classic  folds  of  the  toga,  the  Capitol, 
the  dome,  the  masked  ball,  the  Pincio — Oh,  Rome  ! 

ROME,  Thursday,  February  8. — I  fell  asleep  at  Vintimille, 
and  only  woke  up,  mind  and  body,  when  we  arrived  at 
Rome.  Against  my  will  I  was  obliged  to  remain  there  till 
evening,  as  the  train  for  Naples  does  not  leave  till  10  o'clock. 
A  whole  day  in  Rome  ! 

At  twenty  minutes  past  ten  we  left  Rome.  I  fell  asleep, 
and  we  are  now  at  Naples.  My  sleep  was  not  so  sound, 
however,  as  to  prevent  my  hearing  an  ill-tempered  passen- 
ger complaining  to  the  conductor  of  the  presence  of  Prater 
in  the  coach.  The  gallant  conductor  took  the  part  of 
our  dog. 

But  here  is  Naples.  Does  it  happen  to  you  as  it  does  to 
me?  On  nearing  a  great  and  beautiful  city  I  grow  restless, 
my  heart  palpitates  ;  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  clasp  the 
city  in  my  embrace. 

It  took  us  more  than  an  hour  to  reach  the  Hotel  du 
Louvre.  There  was  an  obstruction  in  the  way — what  cries, 
and  what  confusion  ! 

The  women  here  have  enormous  heads  ;  they  look  like 
the  women  they  exhibit  along  with  the  tigers,  serpents,  and 
other  animals,  at  the  menageries. 


1877.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  123 

In  Rome  I  like  only  what  is  old  ;  at  Naples  there  is  noth- 
ing to  admire  but  what  is  new. 

NAPLES,  Monday,  February  26. — I  continued  my  excur- 
sions to-day.  We  visited  San  Martino,  an  ancient  convent. 
I  have  never  seen  anything  more  interesting.  Museums,  as 
a  general  thing,  give  one  a  chill.  That  of  San  Martino 
attracts  and  charms.  The  antique  carriage  of  the  Syndic, 
and  the  gallery  of  Charles  III.,  enraptured  me;  and  those 
corridors,  with  their  mosaic  floors,  those  ceilings  with  their 
magnificent  moldings  !  The  church  and  the  chapels  are 
something  marvelous.  As  they  are  not  large,  every  detail 
of  the  workmanship  can  be  fully  appreciated.  Polished 
marbles,  precious  stones,  mosaics  on  all  sides,  overhead  and 
underfoot,  on  the  ceiling  as  well  as  on  the  floor !  With  the 
exception  of  those  of  Guido  Reni  and  of  Spagnoletto,  the 
pictures  are  the  most  remarkable  I  have  ever  seen  :  the 
patiently  wrought  works  of  Fra  Buenaventura,  the  ancient 
porcelains  of  Capo-di-Monte,  the  portraits  on  silk,  and  a 
painting  on  glass  representing  the  story  of  Potiphar's  wife. 
The  court-yard  of  white  marble,  with  its  sixty  columns,  is  of 
rare  beauty. 

Our  guide  told  us  that  there  are  but  five  monks  remaining 
in  the  convent — three  brothers  and  two  laymen,  who  dwell 
somewhere  upstairs,  in  a  neglected  wing  of  the  building. 

We  went  up  into  a  sort  of  tower,  with  two  balconies  sus- 
pended one  above  the  other,  and  I  felt  as  one  might  feel 
looking  over  the  edge  of  a  precipice  ;  the  view  is  distract- 
ingly  beautiful.  One  sees  the  mountains,  the  villas,  and  the 
plains  of  Naples  through  a  sort  of  Hue  mist  that  is  only  an 
illusion  of  the  senses,  produced  by  distance. 

"  What  is  going  on  at  Naples  to-day  ? "  I  asked  the  guide, 
as  I  listened  to  the  noises  that  reached  us  from  the  city. 

"  Nothing;  it  is  only  the  Neapolitan  people,"  he  answered, 
smiling. 


124  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

"Is it  always  so?  " 

"Always." 

There  rose  up  above  this  mass  of  roofs  a  clamor,  a  cease- 
less sound  of  cries,  like  a  series  of  shouts,  of  which  one  can 
form  no  idea  in  the  city  itself.  In  truth,  this  noise  that  rises 
up  above  the  city  with  the  blue  mist  produces  a  species  of 
terror  in  the  mind,  and,  by  making  one  strangely  conscious 
of  the  height  at  which  one  stands,  causes  a  sensation  of 
vertigo. 

The  marble  chapels  charmed  me.  A  country  that  pos- 
sesses treasures  such  as  there  are  to  be  found  in  Italy,  is  the 
richest  country  in  the  world.  To  compare  Italy  with  the 
rest  of  the  world  is  like  comparing  a  magnificent  painting 
to  a  whitewashed  wall. 

How  did  I  dare  to  judge  Naples  a  year  ago  ?  I  had  not 
even  seen  it  then. 

Saturday,  March  3,  1877. — I  went  to  the  chapel  in  our 
hotel  this  evening.  There  is  an  infinite  charm  in  letting  the 
thoughts  dwell  upon  love  when  one  is  in  a  church.  You  see 
the  priest,  the  images,  the  glow  of  the  tapers  shining  through 
the  obscurity — all  this  took  me  back  to  Rome  !  Divine 
ecstasy,  celestial  perfume,  delightful  transports — ah,  how 
describe  them  here  !  Only  in  song  could  feelings  such  as 
pervaded  me  be  expressed. 

Rome  !  Its  statues,  its  mosaics,  its  wonders  of  art,  anti- 
quity, the  middle  ages,  its  great  men,  its  monuments  of  the 
past,  St.  Peter's  with  its  columns  and  its  mysterious  shad- 
ows— I  thought  of  all  these. 

What  is  to  be  gained  by  weeping  ?  Tears  will  do  no  good. 
Unhappiness  is  to  be  my  destiny — that,  and  an  artist's  fame. 
And  what  if  I  should  fail  ? 

Make  your  minds  easy  ;  I  was  not  born  to  spend  my  life 
in  some  obscure  corner  of  the  world,  letting  my  faculties 
rust  through  neglect. 


JS/7.]         JOL'RXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  125 

I  will  not  now  speak  of  love,  for  I  once  made  use  of  that 
word  lightly  ;  I  will  no  longer  invoke  the  help  of  God  ;  all 
I  wish  for  is  to  die. 

Lord  God,  Jesus  Christ ;  suffer  me  to  die  !  My  life  has 
been  a  short  one,  but  the  lesson  taught  me  has  been  hard. 
Everything  has  been  against  me.  I  desire  only  to  die. 
My  thoughts  are  as  incoherent  and  disordered  as  the  lines 
I  trace  ;  I  hate  myself,  as  I  hate  everything  that  is  con- 
temptible. 

Let  me  die,  my  God  !  Let  me  die  !  I  have  lived  long 
enough  ! 

A  peaceful  death  !  To  die  while  singing  some  beautiful 
air  of  Verdi  ;  no  rebellious  feeling  rises  up  within  me  at 
the  thought,  as  formerly  ;  then  I  desired  to  live  that  others 
might  not  triumph  and  rejoice  over  me.  Now  all  that  is 
indifferent  to  me  ;  I  suffer  too  much. 

Sunday,  April  i. — I  am  like  the  patient  and  untiring  al- 
chemist who  spends  whole  days  and  nights  beside  his  retorts 
that  he  may  not  miss  the  moment  he  has  longed  for  and 
waited  for.  Every  day  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  going  to  hap- 
pen. And  I  think  of  it  and  wait  for  it.  And  how  do  I  know 
whether  it  has  happened  or  not  ?  I  examine  myself  curi- 
ously and  with  eager  eyes  in  the  glass,  and  I  ask  myself  anxi- 
ously if  this  be  not  perhaps  it.  But  I  have  formed  such  an 
opinion  of  //,  that  I  have  come  to  think  it  does  not  exist,  or 
rather  that  it  has  already  happened,  and  that  there  was 
nothing  wonderful  in  it,  after  all. 

But  all  my  imaginings,  then,  and  the  novelists  and  the 
poets?  Would  they  with  one  accord  have  made  their  theme 
a  feeling  that  does  not  exist,  solely  for  the  purpose  of  dig- 
nifying by  its  name  the  grossness  of  human  nature?  No  ; 
for  in  that  case  it  would  be  impossible  to  account  for  our 
preferences. 


126  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877- 

Friday,  May  n. — Have  I  mentioned  that  Gordigiani  came 
to  see  us ;  that  he  gave  me  great  encouragement,  and  pre- 
dicted an  artistic  future  for  me  ;  that  he  found  much  to 
praise  in  my  sketches,  and  wished  very  much  to  paint  my 
portrait  ? 

FLORENCE,  Saturday,  May  12. — My  heart  is  oppressed  at 
the  thought  of  leaving  Florence. 

To  go  to  Nice  !  I  look  forward  to  it  as  I  would  to  going 
to  live  in  a  desert.  I  should  like  to  shave  my  head  that  I 
might  not  have  the  trouble  of  arranging  my  hair. 

We  have  packed  our  trunks,  we  are  going  !  The  ink 
dries  upon  my  pen  while  I  try  to  write  in  vain,  so  oppressed 
am  I  by  grief. 

NICE,  Wednesday,  May  16. — I  have  been  running  about  all 
the  morning  in  search  of  a  few  trifles  that  I  want  for  my 
antechamber,  but  in  this  wretched  place  one  can  find 
nothing.  I  went  to  the  shop  of  a  painter  on  glass,  to  a  tin- 
smith's, and  I  don't  know  where  else. 

The  thought  that  my  diary  may  not  prove  interesting,  the 
impossibility  of  making  it  interesting  by  preparing  surprises 
for  the  reader,  torment  me.  If  I  wrote  only  at  intervals  I 
might  be  able  to  do  so,  perhaps,  but  these  notes  written 
down  each  day  will  be  read  with  interest  only  by  some 
thinker,  or  some  student  of  human  nature.  Whoever  has 
not  the  patience  to  read  it  all,  will  be  able  to  read  none  of 
it,  and,  above  all,  will  be  able  to  understand  none  of  it. 

I  am  happy  in  my  comfortable  and  pretty  nest  in  the 
midst  of  my  garden  full  of  flowers.  Nice  no  longer  exists 
for  me  ;  I  am  in  my  country-house. 

NICE,  Wednesday,  May  23. — Oh,  when  I  think  that  we 
have  only  a  single  life  to  live,  and  that  every  moment  that 
Tosses  brings  us  nearer  death,  I  am  ready  to  go  distracted  ! 


JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  127 

I  do  not  fear  death,  but  life  is  so  short  that  to  waste  it  is 
infamous. 

One  pair  of  eyes  is  not  enough  if  one  desires  to  accom- 
plish anything.  Reading  and  drawing  fatigue  me  greatly, 
and  while  I  am  writing  these  wretched  lines  at  night  I  grow 
sleepy. 

Ah,  what  a  happy  time  youth  is  ! 

With  what  happiness  shall  I  look  back,  in  times  to  come, 
on  these  days  devoted  to  science  and  art !  If  I  worked 
thus  all  the  year  round — but  a  day,  or  a  week,  as  the  chance 
may  be !  Natures  so  richly  endowed  as  mine  consume 
themselves  in  idleness. 

I  try  to  tranquillize  my  mind  by  the  thought  that  I  shall 
certainly  begin  work  in  earnest  this  winter.  But  the  thought 
of  my  seventeen  years  makes  me  blush  to  the  roots  of  my 
hair.  Almost  seventeen,  and  what  have  I  accomplished? 
Nothing!  This  thought  crushes  me. 

I  think  of  all  the  famous  men  and  women  who  acquired 
their  celebrity  late  in  life,  in  order  to  console  myself  ;  but 
seventeen  years  for  a  man  are  nothing,  while  for  a  woman 
they  are  equal  to  twenty-three  for  a  man. 

To  go  live  in  Paris,  in  the  North,  after  this  cloudless  sky, 
these  clear,  calm  nights  !  What  can  one  desire,  what  can 
one  hope  for,  after  Italy  !  Paris — the  heart  of  the  civilized 
world,  of  the  world  of  intellect,  of  genius,  of  fashion — nat- 
urally people  go  there,  and  remain  there,  and  are  happy 
there  ;  it  is  even  indispensable  to  go  there,  for  a  multitude 
of  reasons,  in  order  to  return  with  renewed  delight  to  the 
land  beloved  of  God,  the  land  of  the  blest,  that  enchanted, 
wondrous,  divine  land  of  the  supreme  beauty  and  magic 
charm  of  which  all  that  one  could  say  would  never  equal 
the  truth  ! 

When  foreigners  come  to  Italy  they  ridicule  its  mean  little 
towns,  and  its  lazzaroni,  and  they  do  this  with  some  clever- 
ness and  not  without  a  certain  show  of  reason.  But  forget 


128  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

for  the  moment  that  you  are  clever  ;  forget  that  it  is  a  mark 
of  genius  to  turn  everything  into  ridicule,  and  you  will  find, 
as  I  do,  that  tears  will  mingle  with  your  laughter,  and  that 
you  will  wonder  at  all  you  see. 

Tuesday,  May  29. — The  nearer  I  approach  to  the  time 
when  my  youth  shall  be  over,  the  more  indifferent  do  I 
become  to  everything.  Few  things  affect  me  now,  while 
formerly  anything  had  power  to  movelne,  so  that  in  reading 
over  this  record  of  the  past  I  see,  from  the  impression  they 
made  upon  me,  that  I  attached  too  much  importance  to 
trifles. 

Trust  in  others,  and  that  sensitiveness  of  feeling  that  is 
the  bloom  of  the  character,  are  soon  lost. 

I  regret  the  loss  of  this  freshness  of  feeling  all  the  more, 
as  when  it  is  once  gone  it  is  gone  forever.  Without  it  one 
is  more  tranquil,  but  one  no  longer  enjoys  as  much.  Dis- 
appointment ought  not  to  have  come  to  me  so  early  in  life. 
If  it  had  not  come,  I  feel  that  I  might  have  achieved  great 
things. 

I  have  just  finished  a  book  that  has  disgusted  me  with 
love — the  story  of  a  charming  princess  who  had  fallen  in 
love  with  an  artist.  Fie  !  I  do  not  say  this  with  the  stupid 
intention  of  seeking  to  belittle  the  profession  of  an  artist, 
but — without  knowing  why,  I  have  always  had  aristocratic 
tendencies,  and  I  believe  as  much  in  race  where  men  as 
where  animals  are  in  question.  It  is  true  that  often — always, 
indeed,  in  earlier  times  the  foundation  of  a  noble  race  was 
based  on  moral  and  physicial  training,  the  effects  of  which 
were  transmitted  from  father  to  son.  And  of  what  conse- 
quence is  the  origin  of  a  thing  ? 

On  glancing  through  those  pages  of  my  journal  that  record 

the  A episode  I  am  filled  with  wonder  and  admiration 

for  myself  to  see  how  just  and  true  were  my  reflections  con- 
cerning it  at  the  time  it  occurred.  I  had  forgotten  them, 


S877-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKI'RTSEFF.  129 

and  I  was  a  little  uneasy  lest  it  might  be  thought  that  I  had 

entertained  an  affection  (a  past  affection)  for  Count  A . 

Fortunately,  however,  no  one  can  think  so  now,  thanks  to 
this  dear  journal.  No,  truly,  I  did  not  think  I  had  made  so 
many  just  reflections  at  the  time,  and,  above  all,  that  I  had 
felt  them.  That  was  a  year  ago,  and  I  feared  I  had  written 
a  great  deal  of  nonsense  ;  but  no,  I  am  quite  satisfied  with 
myself.  The  only  thing  that  I  cannot  understand  is  how  I 
could  have  behaved  so  foolishly  and  reasoned  so  wisely. 

I  must  repeat  to  myself  again  that  no  advice  in  the  world — 
nothing  but  personal  experience — could  ever  have  kept  me 
from  doing  anything  I  wished  to  do. 

That  is  because  the  woman  who  writes  these  words  and 
the  woman  she  is  writing  about  are  two  different  persons. 
What  do  all  these  sufferings  matter  to  me?  I  write  them 
down  ;  I  analyze  them  ;  I  transcribe  my  daily  life,  but  to 
me,  to  me  myself,  all  that  is  completely  indifferent.  It  is  my 
pride,  my  self-love,  my  interests,  my  complexion,  my  eyes, 
that  suffer,  that  weep,  that  rejoice  ;  but  7,  I  take  part  in  it 
all  only  to  observe,  to  narrate,  to  write  about  and  reason 
coldly  concerning  all  these  trifles,  like  Gulliver  among  the 
Liliputians. 

I  have  a  great  deal  more  to  say  in  explanation  of  myself, 
but  enough  for  the  present. 

Monday,  June  i  r. — While  they  were  playing  cards  last 
night  I  made  a  rough  sketch  of  the  players  by  the  unsteady 
light  of  the  two  wax  candles,  and  this  morning  I  transferred 
the  sketches  to  canvas. 

I  am  delighted  to  have  made  a  picture  of  persons  sitting 
down  in  different  attitudes  ;  to  have  copied  the  position  of 
the  hands  and  arms,  the  expression  of  the  countenance,  etc., 
I  had  never  before  done  anything  but  heads,  which  I 
satisfied  to  scatter  over  the  canvas  like  flowers. 


13°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

PARIS,  Saturday,  July  7. — I  think  I  may  truly  say  that  I 
have  been  growing  much  more  sensible  for  some  time  past  ; 
that  I  begin  to  see  things  now  in  a  more  natural  light,  and 
that  I  have  abandoned  a  great  many  illusions  and  a  great 
many  regrets. 

True  wisdom  can  be  learned  only  from  personal  ex- 
perience. 

Sunday,  July  15. — I  am  so  weary  of  life  that  I  should  like 
to  die.  Nothing  amuses  me,  nothing  interests  me.  I  desire 
nothing,  I  hope  for  nothing.  Yes,  there  is  one  thing  I  wish 
for — not  to  be  ashamed  of  being  as  I  am.  I  desire  to  be 
able,  in  a  word,  to  do  nothing,  to  think  of  nothing,  to  live  the 
life  of  a  plant,  without  feeling  remorse  for  it. 

Reading,  drawing,  music — but  ennui  !  ennui !  ennui!  In 
addition  to  one's  occupations  one  requires  some  amusement, 
some  interest  in  life,  and  this  is  why  I  am  weary  of  it. 

I  am  tired  of  life,  not  because  I  have  not  married — no,  I 
am  sure  you  think  better  of  me  than  to  imagine  that — I  am 
tired  of  life  because  everything  has  gone  wrong  with  me, 
and  because  I  am  tired  of  it. 

Paris  kills  me  !  It  is  a  cafe,  a  well-kept  /.otel,  a  bazar. 
I  must  only  hope,  however,  that  when  winter  comes,  what 
with  the  opera,  the  Bois,  and  my  studies,  I  shall  be  able  to 
accustom  myself  to  it. 

Tuesday,  July  17. — I  have  spent  the  day  looking  at  veri- 
table marvels  of  artistic  and  antique  embroidery,  gowns 
that  are  poems,  all  sorts  of  splendors  that  have  given  me  a 
glimpse  of  a  luxury  I  had  scarcely  an  idea  of  before. 

Ah,  Italy  ! — If  I  devoted  a  month  twice  a  year  there  to 
my  wardrobe,  I  had  no  need  to  think  of  it  again.  Dress  is 
so  stupid  when  one  makes  it  a  matter  of  special  study. 

Wednesday,  July  18. — The  mere  word  "  Italy  "causes  me 


1877.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  131 

an  emotion  such  as  no  other  word,  such  as  no  one's  presence, 
has  ever  done. 

Oh,  when  shall  I  be  there  ! 

It  would  annoy  me  exceedingly  if  any  one  were  to  sup- 
pose I  wrote  these  Ah's  and  Oh's  through  affectation. 

I  don't  know  why  this  should  be  the  case,  however ;  and, 
besides,  I  affirm  and  declare  that  all  I  say,  stupid  and  dis- 
agreeable though  it  may  be,  is  the  truth. 

The  thing  is  that  I  wish  to  write  now  in  a  different  style, 
quite  simply  ;  and  I  fear  that  on  comparing  this  with  my 
former  exaggerated  way  of  saying  things,  people  will  no 
longer  be  able  to  understand  what  I  want  to  say. 

I  want  to  express  myself  quite  naturally,  and  if  I  make 
use  of  a  few  figures  of  speech,  do  not  think  it  is  for  orna- 
ment ;  oh,  no  !  it  is  simply  for  the  purpose  of  describing  as 
nearly  as  possible  the  confusion  of  my  thoughts. 

It  vexes  me  greatly  to  be  able  to  write  nothing  that  is 
pathetic.  I  long  so  much  to  make  others  feel  what  I  feel  ! 
I  weep,  and  I  say  I  weep!  That  is  not  what  I  \vant.  I 
want  to  make  you  feel  the  whole  thing — I  want  to  touch 
your  hearts ! 

That  will  come,  and  other  things  will  come  with  it,  but  it 
must  not  be  sought  after. 

T/iursJayy  July  26. — I  have  spent  almost  the  whole  day 
drawing;  in  order  to  rest  my  eyes  I  played  for  a  while  on 
the  mandolin  ;  then  again  came  drawing,  then  the  piano. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  to  be  compared  to  Art  ;  and 
it  is  as  much  a  source  of  happiness  for  the  beginner  as  for 
the  master.  One  forgets  everything  in  one's  work  ;  one 
regards  those  outlines,  those  shadings,  with  respect,  with 
emotion — one  is  a  creator,  one  feels  oneVself  almost  great. 

Tli rough  fear  of  injuring  my  eyes  I  have  given  up  read- 
ing at  night  for  some  little  time  past.  I  begin  to  see  things 
blurred,  even  at  so  short  a  distance  as  from  the  carriage  to 


132  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

the  sidewalk.  This  troubles  me.  What  if,  after  losing  my 
voice,  I  should  be  obliged  to  give  up  drawing  and  reading 
also  !  In  that  case  I  should  no  longer  complain,  for  that 
would  mean  that  in  all  my  other  sufferings  no  one  was  to 
blame,  and  that  they  were  the  will  of  God. 

Monday,  July  30. — Fauvel  has  stopped  my  excursions  to 
Enghein,  and  will  perhaps  send  me  to  Germany,  which 
would  again  turn  everything  upside  down.  Walitsky  is  a 
skillful  doctor  and  understands  a  great  deal  about  sickness  ; 
I  was  in  hopes  he  was  mistaken  in  wishing  me  go  to  Soden, 
but  it  seems  that  Fauvel  is  of  the  same  opinion. 

Sunday,  August  5. — When  one  is  in  want  of  bread,  one 
does  not  ask  for  sweets  ;  therefore  it  is  that  I  am  ashamed 
to  speak  of  my  artistic  hopes  at  present.  I  no  longer  dare 
to  say  that  I  would  like  such  or  such  an  arrangement  made 
to  enable  me  to  work  better,  or  that  I  want  to  go  to  Italy  to 
study.  To  say  such  things  now  would  cost  me  a  great 
effort. 

Even  if  I  were  to  have  everything  I  desire,  I  think  it 
would  no  longer  make  me  happy  as  it  might  have  done 
before. 

Confidence,  once  lost,  can  never  be  restored  ;  and  to 
lose  this — as  is  the  case  with  every  irrevocable  loss — is  an 
inconsolable  sorrow. 

I  am  disenchanted  with  life  ;  I  take  notice  of  nothing, 
and  no  one  interests  me  ;  I  wear  an  anxious  look,  instead 
of  my  former  confident  expression,  thus  depriving  my  coun- 
tenance of  its  principal  charm  ;  I  sit  silent  and  apart  while 
others  are  conversing  around  me  ;  my  friends  look  at  me 
with  astonishment  at  first,  and  then  leave  me  to  myself. 
Then  I  try  to  be  amusing,  and  I  am  only  odd,  extrava- 
gant, impertinent,  and  stupid. 


1877.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  133 

Monday,  August  6. — Do  you  suppose  that  the  condition 
of  Russia  causes  me  no  anxiety  ?  Who  is  there  so  unhappy 
or  so  contemptible  that  he  forgets  his  country  in  her  hour 
of  danger  ? 

Do  you  think  one  hundred  thousand  slaughtered  Rus- 
sians would  now  be  lying  dead  if  my  prayers  could  have 
availed  to  save  them,  or  my  anxious  thoughts  to  protect 
them  ? 

Tuesday,  August  7. — I  have  been  stupefying  myself  at  the 
Bon  Marche,  which  pleases  me,  as  everything  else  does  that 
is  well  arranged.  We  had  some  friends  to  supper  ;  they 
laughed,  still — I  am  sad,  wretched.  ...  So  then,  IT  is  IM- 
POSSIBLE !  Horrible  word  !  Hideous,  maddening  word  ! 
To  die,  my  God,  to  die  !  To  die  and  leave  nothing  behind  ! 
To  die  like  a  dog — to  die  as  a  hundred  thousand  other 
women  have  died  whose  names  scarcely  survive  upon  their 
tombstones  !  To  die  ! — 

Mad  creature,  who  will  not  see  what  it  is  that  God  desires  ! 
God  wishes  me  to  renounce  everything  and  to  devote  my- 
self to  art  !  In  five  years  to  come  I  shall  still  be  young, 
still  beautiful  perhaps.  But  what  if  I  become  only  a  medi- 
ocre artist  such  as  there  are  already  too  many  of  ? 

With  other  things  to  interest  one,  that  might  do,  but  to 
devote  one's  life  to  it  and  not  to  succeed  ! 

What  is  life  without  society  ?  What  can  one  who  leads  a 
solitary  existence  hope  to  accomplish  !  This  thought  makes 
me  hate  the  whole  world,  my  family,  myself  ;  it  makes  me 
blaspheme  !  To  live  !  To  live  !  Holy  Mary,  Mother  of 
God,  Lord  Jesus,  help  me  ! 

But  if,  I  wish  to  devote  my  life  to  art,  I  must  go  to  Italy  ! 
Yes,  to  Rome. 

This  is  the  wall  of  granite  against  which  I  dash  my  head 
at  every  instant  ! 

I  will  remain  here. 


*34  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

Sunday,  August  12. — I  have  sketched  the  portrait  of  An- 
toinette, our  chambermaid.  She  has  a  charming  face,  with 
large,  bright  blue  eyes  of  an  exquisitely  sweet  and  innocent 
expression.  The  sketch  is  always  a  success  with  me,  but 
to  finish  a  portrait  one  must  have  studied. 

Friday,  August  17. — I  am  convinced  that  I  cannot  live 
outside  of  Rome.  In  fact  my  health  is  visibly  deteriorating, 
but  at  least  I  have  no  wish  in  the  matter.  I  would  give 
two  years  of  my  life  never  to  have  been  in  Rome. 

Unhappily,  one  learns  how  to  act  only  when  there  is  no 
longer  need  for  action. 

The  thought  of  painting  enrages  me.  Because  there  are 
the  materials  in  me  to  accomplish  wonders,  and  yet,  so  far 
as  study  is  concerned,  I  am  less  fortunate  than  any  poor 
boy  whom  some  benevolent  person  sends  to  school  because 
he  has  been  discovered  to  possess  talent.  I  hope,  at  least, 
that  posterity,  in  revenge  for  the  loss  of  the  pictures  I  might 
have  painted,  will  decapitate  every  member  of  my  family. 

Do  you  fancy  I  still  wish  TO  GO  INTO  SOCIETY  ?  No,  no  ; 
I  am  soured  and  disappointed,  and  if  I  wish  to  become  an 
artist,  it  is  for  the  same  reason  that  malcontents  become 
republicans. 

I  think,  after  all,  I  slander  myself  in  saying  this. 

Saturday,  August  18. — When  I  was  reading  Homer  I  com- 
pared my  aunt,  on  one  occasion,  when  she  was  angry,  to 
Hecuba  at  the  burning  of  Troy.  No  matter  how  much 
ashamed  we  may  be  to  confess  our  admiration  for  the  class- 
ics, no  one,  I  think,  can  escape  in  secret  from  the  charm 
exercised  over  the  mind  by  the  ancient  writers.  No  mod- 
ern drama,  no  romance,  no  sensational  comedy  of  Dumas  or 
of  George  Sand,  has  left  so  clear  a  recollection  or  so  vivid 
and  profound  an  impression  upon  me  as  the  description  of 
the  fall  of  Troy. 


I877-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  135 

I  almost  feel  as  if  I  had  witnessed  those  horrors;  as  if  I 
had  heard  those  cries,  and  seen  those  flames,  with  Priam's 
family,  unhappy  ones,  seeking  refuge  behind  the  altars  of 
their  gods,  to  be  followed  there  by  the  flames  and  delivered 
by  them  at  last  from  their  sufferings. 

I  have  thrown  aside  in  disgust  the  "Journal  d'un  Diplo- 
mate  en  Italic."  This  French  elegance  of  style,  this  polite- 
ness, these  hackneyed  phrases  of  admiration,  are  an  insult 
to  Rome.  When  a  Frenchman  is  describing  anything  I 
always  picture  him  to  myself  as  dissecting  it  with  a  long 
instrument  held  delicately  between  his  fingers,  and  eye- 
glasses on  his  nose.  • 

Rome  should  be,  as  a  city,  what  I  imagined  I  should  be  as 
a  woman;  any  expression  of  admiration  uttered  in  the  pres- 
ence of  others,  where  we  are  concerned,  is  a  profanation. 

Sunday,  August  19. — I  have  just  finished  reading  "Arca- 
dia," by  Ouida.  This  book  has  left  a  sad  impression  on 
me,  yet  I  almost  envy  the  lot  of  Gioja. 

Gioja  grew  up  to  womanhood  under  the  joint  influence  of 
Homer  and  Virgil;  after  her  father's  death  she  went  on 
foot  to  Rome,  and  received  there  a  terrible  disappointment, 
for  she  had  expected  to  see  the  Rome  of  Augustus. 

For  two  years  she  studied  in  the  studio  of  Marix,  the  most 
celebrated  sculptor  of  the  time,  who  secretly  loved  her. 
But  she  had  no  thought  for  anything  except  her  art  until 
the  appearance  of  Hilarion,  a  poet  whose  poems  drew  tears 
from  every  one,  and  who  -himself  turned  everything  into 
ridicule;  a  millionnaire — as  beautiful  as  a  god,  and  who  was 
adored  by  all  who  knew  him.  While  Marix  worships  her  in 
silence,  Hilarion  causes  Gioja  to  fall  in  love  with  him  to 
gratify  a  whim. 

The  ending  of  the  romance  saddened  me,  yet  I  would 
accept  without  hesitation  the  lot  of  Gioja.  First,  she  wor- 
shiped Rome,  then  she  experienced  the  delight  of  an  absorb- 


136  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

ing  passion.  And  if  she  was  deserted,  it  was  by  him;  if 
she  suffered,  it  was  through  him  ;  and  I  cannot  picture  to 
myself  how  one  can  be  unhappy  because  of  anything  that 
comes  from  the  man  one  loves — as  she  loved,  and  as  I  shall 
love,  if  I  ever  love! 

She  never  discovered  that  he  had  sought  to  make  her  love 
him  for  a  whim. 

"He  has  loved  me,"  she  says,  "it  is  I  who  have  been  un- 
able to  retain  his  affections." 

She  won  fame;  her  name,  uttered  in  accents  of  admira- 
tion mingled  with  wonder,  was  on  every  one's  lips. 

She  never  ceased  to  Iwe  him  ;  he  never  descended  in  her 
eyes  to  the  rank  of  common  men;  she  believed  him  always 
to  be  perfect,  almost  divine;  she  did  not  wish  to  die  then, 
because  he  lived.  "How  can  one  kill  one's  self,"  she  says, 
"while  the  man  one  loves  still  lives?" 

And  she  died  in  his  arms,  hearing  from  his  lips  the  words, 
"I  love  you." 

But  in  order  to  love  thus,  one  must  find  a  Hilarion.  The 
man  one  loves  thus  must  belong  to  no  obscure  family; 
Hilarion  was  the  son  of  a  noble  Austrian  and  a  Greek  prin- 
cess. The  man  one  loves  thus  should  never  know  what  it 
is  to  be  in  want  of  money;  he  should  never  falter  in  any  of 
his  undertakings,  nor  be  afraid  of  anything  or  of  any  one. 

This  man,  finally,  must  never  find  the  door  of  a  palace 
or  of  a  club  barred  to  him;  he  must  never  find  himself 
obliged  to  hesitate  regarding  the  purchase  of  a  statue  he 
desires  to  possess,  or  the  propriety  of  any  one  of  his  actions, 
however  foolish  it  may  be.  He  must  be  superior  to  the 
slights,  the  annoyances,  the  difficulties  of  other  men.  He 
must  be  a  coward  only  in  love,  but  a  coward  like  Hilarion 
who  could  break  a  woman's  heart  with  a  smile,  and  who 
would  weep  to  see  a  woman  want  for  anything. 

Such  a  man  should  find,  wherever  he  travels,  a  palace  of 
his  own  in  which  he  may  repose,  a  yacht  to  transport  him 


i§77]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  137 

wherever  his  fancy  may  lead  him,  jewels,  servants,  horses, 
flute-players  even,  if  he  should  desire  them. 

Thursday,  August  23. — I  am  in  Schlangenbad! 

Fauvel  has  ordered  me  to  rest,  as  he  says.  I  do  not 
think  myself  cured  yet,  however,  and  in  the  matter  of  dis- 
agreeable things  I  never  deceive  myself. 

I  shall  soon  be  eighteen.  Eighteen  years  are  not  a  great 
many  to  one  who  is  thirty-five,  but  they  are  a  great  many  to 
me,  who  in  the  brief  period  of  my  existence  as  a  young  girl 
have  had  few  pleasures  and  many  griefs. 

Art !  If  I  had  not  that  magic  word  before  me  in  the  dis- 
tance I  should  have  died  already. 

But  for  Art  one  has  need  of  no  one;  we  depend  entirely 
upon  ourselves,  and  if  we  fail,  it  is  because  there  was  noth- 
ing in  us,  and  that  we  ought  to  live  no  longer.  Art!  I 
picture  it  to  myself  like  a  great  light  shining  before  me  in 
the  distance,  and  I  forget  everything  else  but  this,  and  I 
shall  press  forward  to  the  goal,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  this 
light.  And  now — oh,  no,  no!  now,  my  God,  do  not  terrify 
me!  Some  horrible  thought  tells  me  that — Ah,  no:  I  will 
not  write  it  down,  I  will  not  bring  bad  luck  upon  myself! 
My  God ! — I  will  make  the  attempt,  and  if —  Then  there 
will  be  no  more  to  be  said,  and — let  God's  will  be  done! 

I  was  at  Schlangenbad  two  years  ago.  What  a  difference 
between  then  and  now ! 

Then  -I  hoped  all  things;  now  I  hope  for  nothing.  .   .   . 

Thanks  to  my  habit  of  carrying  a  "heap  of  useless  things" 
about  with  me  I  can  make  myself  at  home  anywhere  by  the 
end  of  an  hour — my  dressing-case,  my  writing  materials, 
my  mandolin,  a  few  good  big  books,  my  foot-warmer,  and 
my  photographs — that  is  all.  But  with  those  any  room  in 
an  inn  may  be  made  comfortable.  What  I  am  most 
attached  to  are  my  four  large  red  dictionaries,  my  Livy, 
bound  in  green,  a  small  copy  of  Dante,  a  medium-sized 


138  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

Lamartine,  and  my  likeness,  cabinet  size,  painted  in  oil  and 
framed  in  dark  blue  velvet,  encased  in  a  Russia  leather 
case.  With  this  my  bureau  assumes  at  once  an  air  of  ele- 
gance, and  when  the  light  of  the  two  wax  candles  falls  on 
these  warm  and  pleasing  colors,  I  feel  almost  reconciled  to 
Germany. 

Dina  is  so  good,  so  amiable!  How  I  should  like  to  see 
her  happy! 

And  a  word  in  regard  to  that;  what  a  vile  humbug  the 
life  of  certain  persons  is ! 

Monday,  August  27. — I  have  added  a  clause  to  my  even- 
ing prayer — these  five  words:  My  God,  protect  our  armies! 

I,  eighteen  years  old — it  is  absurd!  My  talents  still  un- 
developed, my  hopes,  my  passions,  my  caprices,  will  be 
ridiculous  at  eighteen.  To  begin  to  learn  to  paint  at  eigh- 
teen, when  one  has  had  the  pretension  of  being  able  to  do 
everything  quicker  and  better  than  other  people! 

There  are  people  who  deceive  others,  but  I  have  deceived 
myself. 

Saturday,  September  i. — I  spend  a  great  deal  of  my  time 
alone,  thinking  and  reading,  without  any  one  to  direct  me. 
Perhaps  this  is  well,  but  perhaps  also  it  is  ill. 

Who  will  assure  me  that  my  head  has  not  been  filled  with 
erroneous  notions,  and  my  judgment  distorted  by  false 
methods  of  reasoning?  That  is  a  question  that  will  be 
decided  when  I  am  dead. 

Forgive,  forgiveness:  here  are  a  verb  and  a  noun  exten- 
sively used  in  the  world.  Christianity  commands  us  to  for- 
give. 

What  is  forgiveness? 

It  is  the  renunciation  of  vengeance  or  of  the  desire  to 
inflict  punishment  for  an  offense  received.  But  when  we 
have  had  neither  the  intention  of  taking  vengeance  nor  of 


I877-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  139 

inflicting  punishment,  can  we  be  said  to  forgive?  Yes,  and 
no.  Yes,  because  we  assure  ourselves  and  others  that  \ve 
have  forgiven;  and  we  act  as  if  the  offense  had  never  existed. 
No,  because  one  is  not  master  of  one's  memory,  and  so' 
long  as  we  remember  we  have  not  forgiven. 

I  have  spent  the  whole  of  the  day  in  the  society  of  my 
family,  and  I  mended  with  my  own  hands  a  Russia  leather 
shoe  belonging  to  Dina  ;  then  I  washed  a  large  wooden 
table,  as  any  chambermaid  might  do,  and  set  to  work  to 
make  on  this  table  varenki  (a  paste  made  of  flour,  water, 
and  fresh  cheese).  My  people  were  amused  to  see  me 
kneading  the  paste  with  sleeves  turned  up,  and  a  black 
velvet  cap  upon  my  head,  like  Faust. 

Sunday,  September  2. — How  can  people  who  are  free  to  do 
as  they  choose  go  to  spend  a  day  at  Wiesbaden  ? 

We  went  there  nevertheless,  in  order  to  see  the  most 
ridiculous  people  in  the  world  celebrate  the  defeat  of  the 
most  cultured. 

Thursday,  September  6.— I  will  stay  in  Paris.  This  is 
what  I  have  definitively  resolved  to  do,  and  my  mother  also. 
I  spent  the  whole  evening  with  her.  Everything  would  have 
gone  very  well  if  she  had  not  been  ill,  as  she  was,  particu- 
larly toward  night.  She  has  not  left  her  bed  since. 

/  have  resolved  to  remain  in  Paris,  where  I  will  pursue  my 
studies,  going  to  a  watering-place  in  the  summer  for  relaxation. 
All  my  caprices  are  exhausted.  Russia  was  what  I  needed, 
and  I  am  noiv  completely  reformed.  And  I  feel  that  the 
moment  has  at  last  come  to  pause  in  my  course.  With  my 
abilities,  in  two  years  1  shall  have  made  up  for  lost  time. 

So,  then,  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  and  may  the  divine  protection  be  with  me.  This  is 
not  a  resolution  made  to  be  broken,  like  so  many  former  ones, 
but  a  final  one. 


14°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

PARIS,  Wednesday,  September  19. — I  don't  know  why  ex- 
actly, but  I  think  I  shall  like  to  live  in  Paris.  It  seems  to 
me  that  a  year  in  the  atelier  Julian  will  lay  a  good  founda- 
tion. 

Tuesday,  October  2. — To-day  we  removed  our  belongings 
to  71  Champs  Elysees.  Notwithstanding  the  confusion  I 
found  time  to  go  to  the  atelier  Julian,  the  only  one  of  any 
note  here  for  women.  The  hours  of  work  are  from  eight 
in  the  morning  till  noon,  and  from  one  in  the  afternoon  to 
five. 

To-day  not  being  the  fourth,  which  is  an  unlucky  day  for 
me,  I  was  eager  to  begin  work  on  as  many  things  as  possible. 

I  sketched  a  three-quarter  head  in  crayon  in  ten  minutes 
at  the  studio,  and  Julian  told  me  he  had  not  expected  any- 
thing so  good  from  a  beginner.  I  left  the  studio  early,  as 
all  I  wanted  was  to  make  a  beginning  to-day.  We  went  to 
the  Bois.  I  plucked  five  oak-leaves  there  and  took  them  to 
Doucet,  who  in  half  an  hour  made  me  a  charming  little  blue 
scapular.  But  what  shall  I  wish  for  ?  to  be  a  millionnaire  ? 
To  get  back  my  voice  ?  To  obtain  the  Prix  de  Rome  under 
the  guise  of  a  man  ?  To  marry  Napoleon  IV  ?  To  go  into 
the  great  world  ? 

/  wish  more  than  anything  to  get  back  my  voice. 

The  day  passes  quickly  when  one  draws  from  eight  in  the 
morning  till  noon,  and  from  one  in  the  afternoon  to  five. 
Only  to  go  to  the  studio  and  back  takes  almost  an  hour  and 
a  half.  To-day  I  arrived  a  little  late,  so  that  I  worked  but 
six  hours. 

When  I  think  of  the  entire  years  that  I  have  lost  it  makes 
me  angry  enough  to  give  up  everything  !  But  that  would 
only  make  matters  worse.  Come,  be  miserable  and  hateful 
as  you  will,  but  be  satisfied,  at  least,  to  have  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  making  a  beginning.  And  I  might  have  begun  at 
thirteen  ?  Four  entire  years  lost  ! 


IS??-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  141 

I  might  be  painting  historical  pictures  by  this  time  if  I 
had  begun  four  years  ago.  All  that  I  have  done  is  worse 
than  nothing  ;  it  must  be  undone  again. 

At  last  I  am  working  with  artists — real  artists,  who  have 
exhibited  in  the  Salon,  and  whose  pictures  are  bought — who 
even  give  lessons  themselves. 

Julian  is  satisfied  with  the  beginning  I  have  made.  "By 
the  end  of  the  winter,"  he  said  to  me,  "You  will  be  able  to 
paint  very  good  portraits." 

He  says  some  of  the  women  pupils  give  as  much  promise 
as  the  men  ;  I  would  have  worked  with  the  latter  but  that 
they  smoke,  and  then  there  is  no  difference  in  the  work. 
Formerly  the  women  pupils  did  not  draw  from  the  nude,  but 
since  they  have  been  admitted  to  the  Academy  there  is 
no  difference  made  in  that  respect  between  them  and  the 
men. 

The  servant  at  the  studio  is  just  like  one  of  those  they 
describe  in  novels. 

"  I  have  always  lived  among  artists,"  she  says,  "  and  I  am 
not  by  any  means  one  of  the  bourgeoisie  ;  I  am  an  artist." 

I  am  happy,  happy  ! 

Friday,  October  5. — "  Did  you  do  that  by  yourself  ?  "  M. 
Julian  asked  me  on  entering  the  studio  to-day. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur." 

I  grew  as  red  as  if  I  had  told  a  falsehood. 

"  Well,  I  am  satisfied  with  it,  very  well  satisfied  with  it." 

"  Truly  ? " 

"Very  well  satisfied." 

In  .the  studio  all  distinctions  disappear.  One  has  neither 
name  nor  family  ;  one  is  no  longer  the  daughter  of  one's 
mother,  one  is  one's  self, — an  individual, — and  one  has  be- 
fore one  art,  and  nothing  else.  One  feels  so  happy,  so  free, 
so  proud  ! 

At  last  I  am  what  I  have  so  long  wished  to  be.     I  have 


142  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

wished  for  it  so  long  that  I  scarcely  believe  it  now  to  be 
true. 

Apropos,  whom  do  you  think  I  saw  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  to-day? 

None  other  than  the  Duke  of  H occupying  a  fiacre 

all  by  himself. 

The  handsome,  vigorous  young  man  with  yellow  locks 
and  a  delicate  mustache  now  looks  like  a  big  Englishman  ; 
his  face  is  very  red,  and  he  has  little  red  whiskers  that  grow 
from  the  tip  of  the  ear  to  the  middle  of  the  cheek. 

Four  years,  however,  change  a  man  greatly  ;  at  the  end 
of  half  an  hour  I  had  ceased  to  think  of  him. 

Sic  transit  gloria  Duds. 

The  sense  of  shame  disappears  in  the  presence  of  perfect 
beauty,  for  supreme  beauty  leaves  room  in  the  mind  for  no 
other  feeling  than  admiration. 

And  so  with  other  things.  The  music  that  allows  the 
defect  of  the  stage-setting  to  be  noticed  is  not  perfect.  An 
act  of  heroism  that,  after  it  has  taken  place,  has  left  the 
judgment  free,  is  not  the  heroic  act  you  have  dreamed 
of.  ... 

To  be  supreme  of  its  kind  a  thing  must  occupy  the  mind  to 
the  exclusion  of  every  feeling  that  is  not  connected  with  it. 

Thursday,  October  n. — M.  Julian  told  the  seivant  at  the 
studio  that  Schoeppi  and  I  were  the  pupils  who  gave  great- 
est promise  of  being  artists.  Schoeppi  is  a  Swiss.  M. 
Julian  added  that  I  may  become  a  great  artist. 

The  weather  is  so  cold  that  I  have  taken  cold,  but  I  can 
forgive  all  that  provided  only  I  can  learn  to  draw. 

To  draw  ?     And  why  ? 

To  compensate  me  for  everything  I  have  been  deprived 
of  since  the  day  I  was  born  ;  to  supply  the  place  of  every- 
thing I  have  ever  longed  for,  and  everything  I  still  long  for ; 


I877-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF,  143 

to  enable  me  to  achieve  success  by  my  genius,  by — by  any- 
thing you  choose,  provided  only  that  I  achieve  success  ! 

Saturday,  October  13. — It  is  on  Saturday  that  M.  Tony 
Robert-Fleury  comes  to  the  studio.  He  is  the  artist  who 
painted  Le  Dernier  Jour  de  Corinthe,  which  was  purchased 
by  the  State  for  the  Luxembourg.  The  most  distinguished 
artists  of  Paris  come  to  the  studio  from  time  to  time  to  give 
us  the  benefit  of  their  advice. 

When  he  came  to  me  and  proceeded  to  pronounce  judgment 
I  interrupted  him,  saying  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur,  but  I  began  only  ten  days 
ago." 

"  Where  did  you  draw  before  ?  "  he  asked,  examining  my 
drawing. 

"  Nowhere." 

"  How,  nowhere  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  took  thirty-two  lessons  in  painting  for  my  own 
amusement." 

"  But  that  is  not  studying." 

"  No,  Monsieur,  for  that  reason — " 

"  You  had  never  drawn  from  nature  before  coming 
here  ?" 

"  Never,  Monsieur." 

"  That  cannot  be  possible." 

"  But  I  assure  you — " 

And  as  he  appeared  still  incredulous,  I  added  : 

"  I  will  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  it  is  as  I  say,  if 
you  wish." 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  you  have  extraordinary  talent  for 
painting  ;  you  are  specially  gifted,  and  I  advise  you  to  work 
hard." 

Let  me  go  on  with  and  conclude  the  history  of  my  suc- 
cess. 


144  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

"How  is  this,  Mademoiselle?"  said  Julian  this  evening, 
standing  in  front  of  me  with  his  arms  folded. 

I  felt  something  like  fear,  and  asked  him,  reddening,  what 
the  matter  was. 

"Why,  this  is  splendid,"  he  said;  "you  work  all  day 
long  on  Saturdays,  when  every  one  else  is  taking  a  little 
relaxation  !  " 

"  Why,  yes,  Monsieur,  I  have  nothing  else  to  do  ;  I  must 
do  something." 

"  This  is  fine.  Do  you  know  that  M.  Robert-Fleury  is 
not  at  all  dissatisfied  with  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  has  told  me  so." 

"  This  poor  Robert-Fleury  !  .  He  is  still  somewhat  in- 
disposed." 

And  the  master,  installing  himself  beside  me,  began  to 
chat  with  me — a  thing  he  very  seldom  does  with  any  of  his 
pupils,  and  which  is  very  much  appreciated. 

Mme.  D dined  with  us  to-day;  I  was  quiet,  reserved, 

silent,  scarcely  amiable,  indeed.  I  had  no  thought  for  any- 
thing but  art. 

As  I  am  writing,  I  stop  and  think  of  all  the  labor  that 
will  be  necessary — the  time,  the  patience,  the  difficulties 
that  will  present  themselves. 

It  is  not  as  easy  to  become  a  great  painter  as  it  is  to  say 
the  words  ;  even  if  one  has  the  genius,  there  exists  still  the 
necessity  for  the  indispensable  mechanical  labor. 

And  a  voice  within  whispers  to  me  :  "  You  will  feel 
neither  the  time  nor  the  difficulties  that  may  present 
themselves ;  you  will  achieve  success  before  you  are  aware 
of  it." 

And  I  believe  this  voice  !  It  has  never  yet  deceived  me, 
and  it  has  too  often  predicted  misfortune  for  it  to  speak 
falsely  this  time  ;  I  hear  it,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  justified  in 
believing  it. 

I  shall  take  the  Prix  dc  Rome  ! 


JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  145 

Tuesday,  October  16. — M.  Robert-Fleury  came  to  the 
studio  this  afternoon  and  honored  me  with  his  special 
attention. 

I  spent  all  the  morning  at  the  studio,  as  usual,  from  nine 
till  half-past  twelve.  I  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  arriving 
there  at  eight  precisely. 

At  noon  I  come  home  to  breakfast  and  return  to  the 
studio  at  twenty  minutes  past  one,  to  remain  till  five,  and 
again  in  the  evening  at  eight  to  remain  till  ten.  That  gives 
me  nine  hours  a  day. 

This  does  not  fatigue  me  in  the  least ;  if  it  were  physi- 
cally possible  for  me  to  do  more,  I  would  do  it.  There  are 
people  who  call  this  work  ;  I  assure  you  that  for  me  it  is 
play,  and  I  do  not  say  this  in  order  to  boast  of  it.  Nine 
hours  are  so  little,  and  to  think  that  I  cannot  work  even  so 
long  as  that  every  day,  the  distance  is  so  great  from  the 
Champs  Elysees  to  the  Rue  Vivienne,  and  very  often  there 
is  no  one  to  accompany  me  in  the  evening. 

It  will  be  dark  at  four  o'clock  in  winter  ;  I  will  go  to  the 
studio  in  the  evenings  then  at  all  costs. 

We  drive  to  the  studio  in  a  coupe"  in  the  morning,  and  in 
a  landau  in  the  latter  part  of  the  day. 

You  see  the  question  is  to  accomplish  in  one  year  the 
work  of  three.  And,  as  I  am  making  rapid  progress,  these 
three  years'  work  in  one  will  be  equal  to  six  years  of  work 
for  a  person  of  ordinary  ability. 

I  am  talking  now  like  the  fools  who  say,  "What  it  would 
take  another  two  years  to  accomplish  she  will  accomplish  in 
six  months."  There  can  be  no  more  mistaken  way  of  rea- 
soning than  this. 

The  question  is  not  one  of  time ;  if  that  were  the  case, 
there  would  be  nothing  to  do  but  work  for  so  many  years. 
Doubtless  with  patience  any  one  might  achieve  a  certain 
amount  of  success.  But  what  I  will  accomplish  in  a  year 
or  two  the  Danish  girl  will  never  accomplish.  Whenever  I 


146  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

undertake  to  correct  the  mistakes  of  humanity  I  become 
confused  and  irritated,  because  I  never  have  the  patience 
to  finish  a  sentence  completely. 

In  brief,  if  I  had  begun  three  years  ago,  I  might  be  sat- 
isfied with  six  hours'  study  daily ;  but  as  it  is,  I  need  nine, 
ten,  twelve — as  many  hours  as  I  can  devote  to  it,  in  short. 
Of  course,  even  if  I  had  begun  three  years  ago,  I  would 
still  do  well  to  work  as  many  hours  as  possible,  but — what 
is  past,  is  past  !  " 

Thursday,  October  18. — Julian,  speaking  of  my  drawing 
from  the  nude  to-day,  said  that  it  was  extraordinary,  re- 
markable, for  a  beginner.  And  the  fact  is,  if  it  is  not  re- 
markable, at  least  the  composition  is  good,  the  torso  is  not 
bad  either,  and  the  drawing  is  very  well  for  a  beginner. 

All  the  pupils  got  up  and  came  over  to  look  at  my  drawing, 
while  I  blushed  to  the  roots  of  my  hair. 

Heavens,  how  happy  I  am  ! 

Last  night's  drawing  was  so  bad  that  M.  Julian  advised 
me  to  do  it  over.  Wishing  to  make  it  too  good,  I  spoiled  it 
this  evening.  It  was  better  before  I  retouched  it. 

Saturday,  October  20. — Breslau  received  a  great  many 
compliments  to-day  from  Robert-Fleury,  and  I  not  one. 
The  drawing  from  the  nude  was  good  enough,  but  the  head 
was  bad.  I  ask  myself  with  terror  when  I  shall  be  able  to 
draw  well. 

I  have  been  working  just  two  weeks,  taking  out  the 
Sundays.  Two  weeks  ! 

Breslau  has  been  working  at  the  studio  two  years,  and  she 
is  twenty  ;  I  am  seventeen  ;  but  Breslau  had  taken  lessons 
for  a  long  time  before  coming  here. 

And  I,  miserable  creature  that  I  am  ? 

I  have  been  taking  lessons  only  two  weeks  ! 

How  well  that  Breslau  draws  ! 


I877-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF,  147 

Monday,  October  22. — The  model  to-day  was  an  ugly  one, 
and  every  one  refused  to  draw.  I  proposed  that  we  should 
all  go  to  see  the  Prix  de  Rome,  on  exhibition  at  the  School 
of  Fine  Arts.  Half  the  party  went  on  foot,  and  Breslau, 
Madame  Simonides,  Zilhardt,  and  I  in  a  carriage. 

The  exhibition  had  closed  yesterday.  We  walked  on  the 
quays  for  a  while  ;  we  looked  at  the  old  books  and  engrav- 
ings, we  discussed  art.  Then  we  drove  in  an  open  fiacre  to 
the  Bois.  Do  you  understand  what  that  means?  I  did 
not  want  to  say  anything — it  would  have  been  to  spoil  their 
pleasure.  They  were  so  amiable  and  behaved  with  so  much 
decorum,  and  we  were  just  beginning  to  feel  at  ease  with 
one  another.  In  short — things  were  going  on  very  well, 
when  we  chanced  to  meet  the  landau  containing  my  family 
which  followed  our  fiacre. 

I  made  a  sign  to  our  driver  not  to  take  t"he  lead  ;  they 
had  seen  me  and  they  knew  it,  but  I  did  not  care  to  speak 
to  them  in  the  presence  of  my  artist-friends.  I  wore  my 
little  cap,  my  hair  was  in  disorder,  and  I  looked  confused. 

My  family,  naturally,  were  furious,  and,  worse  than  that, 
ashamed. 

I  was  terribly  embarrassed. 

Altogether  a  disagreeable  event. 

Wednesday,  October  24. — M.  Robert-Fleury  came  to  the 
studio  last  night,  and  told  me  I  had  done  wrong  in  absenting 
myself  from  the  lesson,  as  I  was  one  of  the  best  of  the 
pupils.  M.  Julian  repeated  this  to  me  in  a  sufficiently 
flattering  manner. 

It  was  already  flattering  to  have  my  absence  noticed  by  a 
professor  like  Robert-Fleury. 

And  when  I  think  that  I  might  have  begun  to  work  four 
years  ago  at  least — at  least !  And  I  never  cease  to  think  of  it. 

Saturday,   November  3. — M.   Robert-Fleury  had  already 


148  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

corrected  all  the  drawings  when  I  arrived  at  the  studio  to- 
day. I  gave  him  mine  and  hid  myself  behind  his  seat,  as 
usual.  Well,  I-  was  forced  to  come  out  from  my  place 
of  concealment,  he  had  so  many  pleasant  things  to  say 
to  me. 

"  There  is  still  a  crudeness  in  the  outlines,  indeed,  but 
the  freedom  and  truth  of  the  drawing  are  admirable,"  he 
said.  "  The  action  of  this  is  really  very  good.  Of  course 
it  is  true  that  you  are  wanting  in  experience,  but  you  have 
that  which  is  not  to  be  learned.  Do  you  understand  ? 
That  which  is  not  to  be  learned.  What  you  do  not  yet  pos- 
sess is  to  be  learned,  and  you  will  learn  it." 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "it  is  admirable,  and  if  you  will  only 
study  hard  you  will  do  very  well — and  remember  it  is  I  who 
say  so." 

"And  I  say' so  too,"  I  answered. 

Thursday,  November  8. — There  is  only  one  thing  that 
could  have  taken  me  away  from  the  studio  for  the  whole 
afternoon,  and  that  is  Versailles. 

On  the  stairs  I  came  face  to  face  with  Julian,  who  was 
surprised  to  see  me  leaving  so  early.  I  explained  to  him 
how  it  was,  and  said  that  nothing  but  Versailles  could  have 
taken  me  away  from  the  studio.  He  said  that  was  so  much 
the  more  to  be  commended,  as  I  had  so  many  temptations 
in  the  way  of  amusements. 

"  I  find  pleasure  nowhere  but  here,  Monsieur,"  I  said. 

"  And  you  are  right  ;  you  shall  see  how  glad  you  will  be 
that  it  is  so  two  months  hence." 

"  You  know  my  desire  is  to  be  a  great  artist,  and  that  I 
am  not  learning  drawing  as — an  amusement." 

"  I  should  hope  so  !  That  would  be  to  put  a  bar  of  gold 
to  the  same  use  as  a  bar  of  copper,  and  that  would  be  a 
crime  ;  I  assure  you  that  with  your  ability — I  see  evidence 
of  that  in  the  admirable  things  you  have  already  done — 


is;?.]      JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         149 

you  do  not  need  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  to  accom- 
plish wonders." 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  I  repeat  it,  wonders  !  " 

"  Take  care,  Monsieur,  I  shall  go  away  enchanted." 

"  I  speak  the  truth,  you  shall  see  for  yourself  ;  by  the  end 
of  this  winter  you  will  "be  able  to  draw  very  well.  I  give 
you  six  months  in  which  to  familiarize  yourself  with  colors, 
without  neglecting  your  drawing — to  accomplish  wonders, 
in  a  word." 

Merciful  Heaven  !  During  the  drive  home  I  did  nothing 
but  laugh  and  cry  for  joy  ;  and  I  already  began  to  indulge 
in  dreams  of  receiving  five  thousand  francs  for  a  portrait. 

So  much  happiness  makes  me  afraid.  A  year  and  a  half 
for  portraits,  but  for  a  picture  ?  Let  us  say  two  or  three 
years  more — we  shall  see. 

Saturday,  November  10. — M.  Robert-Fleury  was  tired  and 
indisposed  to-day,  and  corrected  scarcely  half  of  our  draw- 
ings. No  one  received  a  compliment  from  him,  not  men  I ; 
I  was  a  little  surprised  at  this,  as  Julian  had  thought  my 
work  very  good.  Yes,  but  I  was  dissatisfied  with  it  myself. 
I  am  disgusted. 

Afterwards  I  made  some  sketches  ;  one  of  them,  a  sort 
of  caricature,  turned  out  a  success.  Julian  made  me  put  my 
name  to  it,  and  placed  it  in  his  album. 

How  much  more  easily  we  are  affected  by  disagreeable 
things  than  by  pleasant  ones  ! 

Fora  month  past  I  have  heard  nothing  but  words  of 
commendation,  with  the  exception  of  one  occasion,  a  fort- 
night ago.  This  morning  I  was  scolded,  and  I  have  for- 
gotten everything  but  the  scolding.  But  it  is  so  always.  A 
thousand  persons  applaud  ;  a  single  one  hisses,  and  his  voice 
drowns  the  voices  of  all  the  others. 


ISO  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

Wednesday,  November  14. — To-day  I  went  to  look  for 
some  books  and  plaster  casts  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
School  of  Medicine.  I  was  delighted  ;  the  streets  were  full 
of  students  coming  out  of  the  various  schools — those  narrow 
streets  with  shops  where  musical  instruments  are  sold.  I 
was  enchanted  with  everything.  Ah  !  sapristi!  I  can 
understand  now  the  magic  charm,  if  one  may  say  so,  of  the 
Latin  Quarter. 

Talk  to  me  now  of  the  Latin  Quarter  if  you  will — that  is 
what  reconciles  me  to  Paris  ;  one  might  fancy  one's-self  in 
another  country — almost  in  Italy  ;  it  is  another  sort  of  life 
altogether,  something  that  I  cannot  describe. 

My  mother  was  horrified  to  see  me  go  to  a  shop  where 
"  one  sees  such  things — oh,  such  things  !  naked  peasants." 
Bourgeoise  !  Wait  till  I  shall  have  painted  a  fine  picture — 
When  the  flower  is  in  bloom,  the  fruit  ripe,  no  one  thinks  of 
the  soil  from  which  they  have  sprung. 

I  think  only  of  the  end  in  view,  and  I  press  on  to  that 
end  without  pausing  or  turning  aside. 

I  love  to  go  to  workshops  and  to  places  where,  thanks  to 
my  modest  costume,  I  am  taken  for  a  Breslau,  as  it  were  ; 
they  look  at  me  in  a  certain  benevolent,  encouraging  fashion, 
altogether  different  from  before. 

I  can  never  forgive  myself  for  not  knowing  as  much  as 
Breslau.  The  thought  that  troubles  me  is  this  :  I  have 
learned  a  little  of  everything,  but  nothing  thoroughly,  and  I 
am  afraid  the  same  thing  may  happen  in  this  case.  But  no,  by 
the  way  in  which  I  am  progressing,  this  is  going  to  be  serious. 
That  one  has  not  done  a  thing  before  is  no  reason  why  one 
should  never  do  it.  But  each  first  time  I  am  incredulous. 

Friday,  November  23. — That  miserable  Breslau  has  com- 
posed a  picture — "  Monday  Morning,  or  the  Choice  of  the 
Model."  Every  one  belonging  to  the  studio  is  in  it — Julian 
standing  between  Amelie  and  me. 


I8?7-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BA SHKIR TSEFF.  151 

It  is  correctly  done,  the  perspective  is  good,  the  like- 
nesses— everything. 

When  one  can  do  a  thing  like  that,  one  cannot  fail  to  be- 
come a  great  artist. 

You  have  guessed  it,  have  you  not  ?  I  am  jealous.  That 
is  well,  for  it  will  serve  as  a  stimulus  to  me. 

But  it  is  six  weeks  since  I  began  to  draw.  Breslau  will 
be  always  in  advance  of  me,  because  she  began  before  me. 
No  ;  in  two  or  three  months  more  I  shall  be  able  to  draw 
as  well  as  she  does — that  is  to  say,  very  well.  It  pleases 
me,  besides,  to  have  found  a  rival  worthy  of  me  ;  if  there 
were  only  the  others  I  should  go  to  sleep. 

Grandpapa  is  ill,  and  Dina  is  at  her  post,  devoted  and 
attentive.  She  has  grown  much  prettier,  and  she  is  so  good  ! 

Monday,  November  26. — I  took  my  first  lesson  in  anatomy 
at  four  o'clock  to-day,  just  after  my  drawing  lesson.  It 
lasted  till  half-past  four. 

M.  Cuyer  is  my  teacher  ;  he  was  sent  to  me  by  Mathias 
Duval,  who  has  promised  to  obtain  permission  for  me  to 
visit  the  School  of  Fine  Arts.  I  began  with  the  bones,  of 
course,  and  one  of  my  bureau  drawers  is  full  of  vertebrae — 
natural  ones. 

This  is  frightful  when  one  thinks  that  the  other  two  con- 
tain perfumed  paper,  visiting  cards,  etc. 

Sunday,  December  9. — Dr.  Charcot  has  just  gone.  I  was 
present  during  the  consultation  and  listened  to  what  the 
doctors  said  afterward,  for  I  am  the  only  self-possessed 
person  in  the  house,  and  they  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  doctor 
like  themselves.  At  all  events  they  do  not  expect  a  fatal 
result  at  present. 

Tuesday,  December  u. — Grandpapa  can  no  longer  speak. 
It  is  horrible  to  see  this  man,  who  so  short  a  time  ago  was 


"IS2  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1877. 

still  strong,  energetic,  young — to  see  him  lying  there  almost 
a  corpse. 

Wednesday,  December  12. — At  one  o'clock  the  priest  and 
the  deacon  came  and  administered  the  last  sacraments  to 
grandpapa.  Mamma  wept  and  prayed  aloud  ;  after  their 
departure  I  went  to  breakfast.  How  much  of  the  animal 
there  still,  of  necessity,  remains  in  man. 

Saturday,  December  15. — As  was  to  be  expected,  Breslau 
has  met  with  a  great  success  ;  that  is  because  she  draws 
well.  As  to  me,  they  found  my  head  very  good,  and  my 
drawing  from  the  nude  not  bad. 

I  am — I  don't  know  what.  Breslau  has  been  drawing  for 
three  years,  and  I  for  only  two  months  ;  no  matter,  it  is 
abominable  !  Ah,  if  I  had  begun  three  years  ago — only 
three  years  ago,  that  is  not  so  long — I  should  be  famous 
to-day. 

Saturday,  December  22. — Robert-Fleury  said  to  me  to- 
day:  "One  must  never  be  satisfied  with  one's-self."  Julian 
said  the  same  thing,  and  as  I  have  never  been  satisfied  with 
myself,  these  words  have  given  me  food  for  reflection.  And 
when  Robert-Fleury  said  a  great  many  agreeable  things  to 
me  afterward,  I  told  him  it  was  well  he  did  so,  for  that 
I  was  altogether  dissatisfied  with  myself,  disheartened, 
despondent — which  made  him  open  his  eyes  wide  with 
astonishment. 

And  I  was  in  truth  disheartened.  From  the  moment  I 
cease  to  be  admired  I  grow  discouraged  ;  that  is  unfor- 
tunate. 

After  all  I  have  made  unheard-of  progress.  He  repeated 
to  me  that  I  had  extraordinary  talent.  I  "catch  the  like- 
ness." I  "group  well."  I  "  draw  correctly."  "  What  more 
would  you  have.  Mademoiselle  ?  Be  reasonable,"  he  ended. 


1877]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSE11-.  153 

He  remained  a  long  time  standing  beside  my  easel. 

"  When  one  can  draw  like  that,"  he  said,  pointing  first  to 
the  head  and  then  to  the  shoulders,  "  one  has  no  right  to 
draw  shoulders  like  those." 

The  Swiss  girls  and  I  went,  disguised,  to  Bonnat,  to  ask 
him  to  receive  us  in  the  men's  studio. 

Naturally,  he  explained  to  us  that  those  fifty  young  men 
not  being  under  any  surveillance  whatever,  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  do  as  we  asked.  Afterward  we  went 
to  see  Munkacsy — I  don't  know  if  -I  spell  the  name  cor- 
rectly— a  Hungarian  painter,  who  has  a  magnificent  house, 
and  who  is  a  great  genius. 

Saturday,  December  29. — M.  Robert-Fleury  was  very  well 
pleased  with  me  to-day.  He  stood  for  at  least  half  an  hour 
before  a  pair  of  feet,  life  size,  that  I  had  drawn,  and  asked 
me  again  if  I  had  never  painted  before  ;  if  I  indeed  wished 
to  make  a  serious  study  of  painting ;  and  how  long  I 
intended  to  remain  in  Paris  ?  He  expressed  a  desire  to  see 
the  first  things  I  had  done  in  colors,  and  asked  me  how  I 
had  come  to  do  them.  I  told  him  I  had  done  them  for  my 
own  amusement.  As  he  stayed  talking  so  long  they  all  came 
behind  him  to  listen,  and  in  the  midst  (I  dare  to  say  it)  of 
the  general  amazement  he  declared  that  if  I  wished  I  might 
begin  to  paint  at  once. 

To  this  I  replied  that  I  was  not  dying  to  paint,  and  that 
I  should  prefer  to  perfect  myself  first  in  drawing. 

Sunday  and  Monday,  December  30  and  31. — I  feel  very 
melancholy ;  we  are  not  keeping  the  Christmas  holidays 
this  year,  and  that  makes  me  sad.  I  went  to  see  the  .Christ- 
mas-tree at  the  house  of  the  Swiss  girls  ;  it  was  very  gay 
and  pretty,  but  I  was  sleepy,  as  I  had  worked  till  ten 
o'clock.  We  had  our  fortunes  told.  Breslau  is  to  receive 
wreaths  ;  I  the  Piix  de  Rome, 


154  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1878. 

1878. 

Friday,  January  4. — How  strange  it  is  that  my  old 
nature  should  lie  so  completely  dormant.  Scarce  a  trace  of 
it  is  to  be  seen.  Occasionally  some  souvenir  of  the  past 
reawakens  the  old  bitterness,  but  I  immediately  turn  my 
thoughts  to — to  what  ?  To  art.  This  is  amusing. 

Is  this,  then,  the  final  transformation  ?  I  have  so  long 
and  so  eagerly  pursued  this  aim,  this  means  of  contriv- 
ing to  live  without  passing  the  day  cursing  myself  or  the 
rest  of  the  creation,  that  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  I  have 
found  it. 

Dressed  in  my  black  blouse,  there  is  something  in  my 
appearance  that  reminds  one  of  Marie  Antoinette  at  the 
Temple. 

I  begin  to  become  what  I  desired  to  be,  confident  in  my 
own  powers,  outwardly  tranquil.  I  avoid  quarrels  and  in- 
trigues ;  I  am  scarcely  ever  without  some  useful  occupa- 
tion. 

In  short,  I  am  gradually  perfecting  my  character.  Under- 
stand what  I  mean  by  perfection  ;  perfection,  that  is  to  say, 
for  me. 

Oh,  time  !     Time  is  required  for  everything. 

Time  is  the  most  terrible,  the  most  discouraging,  the 
most  unconquerable  of  all  obstacles,  and  one  that  may 
exist  when  no  other  does. 

Whatever  may  happen  to  me,  I  am  better  prepared  for  it 
now  than  I  was  formerly,  when  it  enraged  me  to  have  to 
confess  that  I  was  not  perfectly  happy. 

Sunday,  January  6. — Well,  then,  I  agree  with  you  ;  time 
is  passing,  and  it  would  be  infinitely  more  amusing  to  spend 
it  as  I  formerly  desired  to  do,  but,  since  that  is  impossible, 


18:3.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  155 

let  us  await  the  results  of  my  genius ;  there  will  still  be  time 
enough  for  the  other. 

We  have  changed  our  place  of  residence ;  we  are  now 
living  at  67  Avenue  de  1'Alma.  From  my  windows  I  can 
see  the  carriages  on  the  Champs  Elysees.  I  have  a  salon- 
studio  of  my  own. 

Monday,  January  7. — Am  I,  or  am  I  not  to  believe  in  my 
future  as  an  artist  ?  Two  years  are  not  a  lifetime,  and 
when  two  years  are  passed  I  can  return,  if  I  wish,  to  a  life 
of  idleness,  of  amusement,  of  travel.  What  I  want  is  to  be 
famous  ! 

I  will  be  famous  ! 

Saturday,  January  12. — Walitsky  died  at  two  o'clock  this 
morning. 

When  I  went  to  see  him  last  night  he  said  to  me,  half- 
jestingly,  half-sadly,  "Addio,  Signorina,"  in  order  to  remind 
me  of  Italy. 

Perhaps  this  is  the  first  occasion  during  my  life  on  which 
I  have  shed  tears  free  from  egotism  or  anger. 

There  is  something  peculiarly  affecting  in  the  death  of  a 
being  altogether  inoffensive,  altogether  good  ;  it  is  like  see- 
ing a  faithful  dog  die  that  has  never  done  harm  to  any  one. 

As  he  felt  slightly  better  toward  one  o'clock  the  women  re- 
tired to  their  own  rooms  ;  only  my  aunt  remained  with  him. 
Then  his  breath  failed  him  so  that  it  was  necessary  to  dash 
water  into  his  face. 

When  he  had  recovered  himself  a  little  he  rose,  for  he 
desired  at  all  hazards  to  bid  adieu  to  grandpapa,  but  he 
had  scarcely  gone  into  the  hall  when  his  strength  failed 
him  ;  he  had  only  time  to  cry.  out  in  Russian,  "Adieu  !  " 
but  in  so  strong  a  voice  that  it  wakened  mamma  and  Dina, 
who  ran  to  his  assistance,  only  to  see  him  fall  into  the  arms 
of  my  aunt  and  Triphon. 


T56  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  realize  it ;  it  is  so  terrible  ! 
It  seems  impossible  ! 

Walitsky  is  dead  !  It  is  an  irreparable  loss  ;  one  would 
never  suppose  that  such  a  character  could  exist  in  real 
life. 

We  read  of  people  like  that  in  books.  Well,  then,  I  de- 
sire that  he  may  now  be  conscious  of  my  thoughts ;  that 
God  may  concede  him  the  power  to  know  what  I  say  and 
think  of  him.  May  he,  then,  hear  me  from  whatsoever  be 
his  place  of  abode,  and,  if  he  has  ever  had  reason  to  com- 
plain of  me,  he  will  pardon  me  now  because  of  my  profound 
esteem  and  sincere  friendship  for  him,  and  because  of  the 
sorrow  for  his  loss  which  I  feel  in  the  innermost  recesses  of 
my  soul  ! 

Monday,  January  28. — To-morrow  the  prizes  are  to  be 
awarded.  I  so  much  fear  being  badly  placed  ! 

Tuesday,  January  29. — I  had  such  a  terror  of  the  concours 
that  poor  Rosalie  was  obliged  to  make  superhuman  efforts 
to  make  me  get  up. 

I  expected  either  to  receive  the  medal  or  to  be  classed 
among  the  very  last. 

Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  was  the  case.  I  am  just  in 
the  same  place  that  I  was  two  months  ago. 

I  went  to  see  Breslau,  who  is  still  sick. 

They  sang  "  Traviata  "  at  the  Italiens  to-night,  with  Albani, 
Capoul,  and  Pandolfini  in  the  cast — great  artists  all  of 
them  ;  but  I  was  not  pleased.  In  the  last  act,  however,  I 
felt,  not  the  desire  to  die,  but  the  thought  that  I  was  destined 
to  suffer  thus  and  to  die  thus,  just  as  all  was  going  to  turn 
out  happily. 

This  is  a  prediction  that  I  make  concerning  myself. 

I  wore  a  baby-waist,  which  is  very  becoming  when  one  is 
slender  and  well  made.  The  white  bows  on  the  shoulders 


1878]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  157 

and  the  bare  neck  and  arms  made  me  look  like  one  of  Velas- 
quez's infantas. 

To  die  ?  It  would  be  absurd  ;  and  yet  I  think  I  am  going 
to  die.  It  is  impossible  that  I  should  live  long.  I  am  not 
constituted  like  other  people  ;  I  have  a  great  deal  too  much 
of  some  things  in  my  nature,  a  great  deal  too  little  of  others, 
and  a  character  not  made  to  last.  If  I  were  a  goddess,  and 
the  whole  universe  were  employed  in  my  service,  I  should 
still  find  the  service  badly  rendered.  There  is  no  one  more 
exacting,  more  capricious,  more  impatient,  than  I  am. 
There  is  sometimes,  perhaps  even  always,  a  certain  basis  of 
reason  and  justice  in  my  words,  only  that  I  cannot  explain 
clearly  what  I  want  to  say.  I  say  this,  however,  that  my 
life  cannot  last  long.  My  projects,  my  hopes,  my  little  vani- 
ties, all  fallen  to  pieces  !  I  have  deceived  myself  in  every- 
thing ! 

Wednesday,  February  13. — My  drawing  does  not  progress, 
and  I  feel  as  if  some  misfortune  were  about  to  happen  to 
me  ;  as  if  I  had  done  something  wrong  and  feared  the  con- 
sequences, or  as  if  I  anticipated  receiving  an  insult. 

Mamma  makes  herself  very  unhappy  through  her  own 
fault ;  there  is  one  thing  I  beg  and  implore  her  not  to  do, 
and  that  is  to  touch  my  things  or  put  my  room  in  order. 
Well,  no  matter  what  I  may  say,  she  continues  to  do  so,  with 
a  pertinacity  that  resembles  a  disease.  And  if  you  only 
knew  how  exasperating  this  is,  and  how  it  increases  my 
natural  impatience  and  my  inclination  to  say  sharp  things, 
which  stood  in  no  need  of  being  increased  ! 

I  believe  that  she  loves  me  tenderly.  I  love  her  tenderly, 
also,  but  we  cannot  remain  two  minutes  together  without 
exasperating  each  other,  even  to  the  extent  of  shedding 
tears.  In  a  word,  we  are  very  uncomfortable  together,  and 
we  should  be  very  unhappy  apart. 

I  will  make  every   sacrifice  that  may  be  required  of  me 


*58  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

for  the  sake  of  my  art.  I  must  bear  in  mind  that  that  is 
myself. 

Therefore,  I  will  create  for  myself  an  independent  exist- 
ence, and  what  must  come,  let  it  come. 

Saturday,  March  16. — "  I  have  noticed  for  some  time  past," 
said  Robert-Fleury  to  me  this  morning,  "  that  there  is  a 
certain  limit  beyond  which  you  cannot  go  ;  that  is  not  as  it 
should  be.  With  your  really  great  ability  you  should  not 
stop  short  at  easy  things,  the  more  as  you  succeed  in  the 
more  difficult  ones." 

I  know  it  well  !  But  next  Monday  you  shall  see  that  I 
will  cross  the  limit  of  which  Robert-Fleury  speaks.  The 
first  thing  is  to  convince  one's-self  that  one  must  succeed, 
and  that  one  will  succeed. 

Saturday,  March  23. — I  promised  that  I  would  cross  the 
limit  of  which  Robert-'Fleury  spoke. 

I  have  kept  my  word.  He  was  greatly  pleased  with  me. 
He  repeated  that  it  was  worth  while  to  work  hard  with  such 
ability  as  I  possessed  ;  that  I  had  made  astonishing  progress, 
and  that  in  a  month  or  two  more — 

Saturday,  April  6. — Robert-Fleury  really  gives  me  too 
much  encouragement  ;  he  thought  the  second  place  was  my 
due,  he  said,  and  it  did  not  surprise  him  at  all  that  I  should 
receive  it. 

And  to  think  that  M on  leaving  our  house  to-night 

probably  went  home  to  dream  of  me,  and  imagine,  perhaps, 
that  I  am  dreaming  of  him — 

Whilst  I,  en  deshabille,  with  my  hair  in  disorder  and  my 
slippers  thrown  off,  am  asking  myself  if  I  have  not  suc- 
ceeded sufficiently  in  bewitching  him,  and,  not  satisfied  with 
asking  myself,  am  asking  Dina  also. 

And  yet — O  Youth  J — I  might  once  have  thought  that  this 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKlRTSl.ir.  159 

was  love.  Now  I  am  more  sensible,  and  I  understand  that  it 
is  merely  an  amusement  to  feel  that  you  are  causing  some  one 
to  fall  in  love  with  you,  or  rather  to  perceive  that  some  one 
is  falling  in  love  with  you.  The  love  one  inspires  and  the  love 
one  feels  are  two  distinct  sentiments  which  I  confounded 
together  before. 

Good  Heavens  !  and  I  once  thought  I  was  in  love  with 

A ,  with  his  long  nose  that  makes  me  think  of  that  of 

M .  How  frightful  ! 

How  happy  it  makes  me  to  be  able  to  clear  myself  from 
this  suspicion — how  happy  !  No,  no,  I  have  never  yet 
loved,  and  if  you  could  only  picture  to  yourself  how  happy 
I  feel,  how  free,  how  proud,  how  worthy — of  him  who  is 
to  come  ! 

Friday,  April  12. — Julian  met  Robert-Fleury  at  the  cafe 
yesterday,  and  the  latter  said  I  was  a  truly  remarkable  and 
interesting  pupil,  and  that  he  expected  great  things  of  me. 
It  is  such  words  as  these  that  I  must  constantly  bear  in 
mind,  especially  when  my  spirit  is  invaded  by  a  species  of 
inexplicable  terror,  and  I  feel  myself  sinking  in  an  abyss  of 
doubt  and  of  torturing  thoughts  of  all  kinds,  for  none  of 
which  are  there  any  real  grounds. 

It  has  happened  very  often,  for  some  time  past,  that  they 
have  put  three  candles  in  my  room  together, — that  signifies 
a  death. 

Is  it  I  who  am  to  depart  for  the  other  world  ?  I  think 
so.  And  my  future  ?  And  the  fame  that  awaits  me?  Ah, 
well,  they  would  be  of  no  value  to  me  in  that  case. 

If  there  were  only  a  man  on  the  scene,  I  should  fancy 
myself  in  love,  so  restless  am  I  ;  but,  besides  there  being  no 
one,  I  am  disgusted  with  the  whole  thing. 

I  begin  to  believe  that  I  have  a  serious  passion  for  my 
art,  and  that  reassures  and  consoles  me.  If  it  were  not  for 
this  restlessness  and  this  terror,  I  might  be  happy  ! 


160  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

/  remember  that  in  my  childhood  I  had  a  superstitious  fear 
somewhat  similar  to  the  feeling  I  have  at  present.  I  thought 
2  should  never  be  able  to  learn  any  other  language  but  French; 
that  the  other  languages  ivere  not  to  be  learned.  Well,  you 
see  there  was  absolutely  nothing  in  it;  yet  that  was  as  much  a 
superstitious  fear  as  my  present  feeling  is. 

Saturday,  April  20. — I  glanced  through  a  few  pages  in  my 
journal  before  closing  it  last  night,  and  came  by  chance 
across  A 's  letter. 

This  made  me  think  of  the  past,  and  I  sat  dreaming  of  it, 
and  smiling  and  dreaming  again.  It  was  late  when  I  went 
to  bed,  but  the  time  spent  thus  was  not  lost  ;  such  moments 
are  precious,  and  cannot  be  had  at  will  ;  there  are  no  mo- 
ments lost  when  one  wills  it  except  when  we  are  young  ; 
we  must  make  the  most  of  them  and  be  grateful  for  them, 
as  for  everything  else  that  God  has  given  us. 

Owing  to  Robert-Fleury  I  was  unable  to  go  to  confession 
before  mass  to-day,  which  has  obliged  me  to  defer  taking 
communion  until  to-morrow. 

My  confession  was  a  peculiar  one  ;  it  was  as  follows  : 

"  You  have  committed  some  sins,  no  doubt,"  said  the 
priest,  after  the  customary  prayer.  "Are  you  prone  to 
idleness  ?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"To  pride?" 

"Very  much  so." 

"You  do  not  fast?" 

"Never." 

"Have  you  injured  any  one?" 

"I  do  not  think  so — perhaps;  in  trifles  it  may  be,  father, 
but  not  in  anything  of  importance." 

"Then  may  God  grant  you  pardon,  my  daughter." 

I  have  recovered  my  mental  balance.  I  proved  this  to- 
night by  conversing  with  the  others  without  running  into 


1878.1         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BA$HK1RTS£FF.  161 

exaggerations  of  speech;  my  mind  is  tranquil,  and  I  have 
absolutely  no  fear,  either  physical  or  moral.  It  has  often 
happened  to  me  to  say:  "I  am  terribly  afraid"  of  going  to 
such  a  place,  or  of  doing  such  a  thing.  This  is  an  exag- 
geration of  language  which  is  common  to  -almost  every  one 
and  which  means  nothing.  What  I  am  glad  of  is  that  I  am 
accustoming  myself  to  talk  with  every  one.  It  is  necessary 
to  do  that  if  one  desires  to  have  a  pleasant  salon.  Formerly 
I  would  single  out  one  person  to  converse  with,  and  neglect 
the  others  entirely,  or  almost  entirely. 

Saturday,  April  27;  Sunday,  April  28. — I  foolishly  took 
the  notion  into  my  head  to  invite  some  men  to  attend  the 
midnight  mass  at  our  church.  On  our  right  were  the  Am- 
bassador and  the  Duke  de  Leuchtenberg  and  Mme.  Aken- 
kieff,  his  wife.  The  Duke  is  the  son  of  the  Grand  Duchess 
Marie,  who  died  at  Florence,  and  the  nephew  of  the  Empe- 
ror. This  couple  were  at  Rome  when  I  was  there,  and 
Mme.  Akenkieff  was  not  then  received  at  the  Embassy.  At 
present,  however,  she  plays  the  part  of  Grand  Duchess  to 
perfection.  She  is  still  beautiful  and  has  a  majestic  car- 
riage, though  she  is  almost  too  slender. 

The  husband  is  devoted  in  his  attentions  to  the  wife;  it 
is  admirable  and  altogether  charming. 

The  Embassy  gave  an  Easter  supper,  which  took  place  at 
two  in  the  morning,  after  the  mass.  It  was  given  in  the 
priest's  house,  which  was  chosen  for  the  purpose  on  account 
of  its  proximity  to  the  church.  It  was  the  Ambassador, 
however,  who  issued  the  invitations  and  received  the  guests, 
so  that  we  had  an  opportunity  to  sit  at  the  same  table  as  the 
Grand  Duke  and  his  wife,  the  Ambassador,  and  all  the  best 
people  of  the  Russian  colony  in  Paris. 

I  was  not  very  gay,  though  in  reality  not  sad  at  heart;  for 
this  will  send  me  back  to  my  studies  with  renewed  ardor. 

Why  does  not   Prince   Orloff,  who  is  a  widower,  fail   in 


162  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKlRTSEFF.         [1878. 

love  with  me  and  marry  me?  I  should  then  be  Ambassa- 
dress in  Paris,  almost  Empress.  M.  Anitchkoff,  who  was 
ambassador  at  Teheran,  married  a  young  girl  for  love  when 
he  was  fifty-five. 

I  did  not  produce  the  effect  I  had  intended.  Laferriere 
disappointed  me,  and  I  was  compelled  to  wear  an  unbe- 
coming gown.  I  had  to  improvise  a  chemisette,  as  the  gown 
was  decollette  and  that  would  not  do.  My  gown  affected  my 
temper,  and  my  temper  my  appearance — everything. 

Monday,  April  29. — There  is  no  better  way  of  spending 
the  time  from  six  in  the  morning  till  eight  in  the  evening, 
taking  out  an  hour  and  a  half  for  breakfast,  than  in  some 
regular  occupation. 

Changing  the  subject:  I  will  tell  you  that -I  think  I  shall 
never  be  seriously  in  love.  I  invariably  discover  something 
to  laugh  at  in  the  man,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it.  If  he  is 
not  ridiculous,  he  is  stupid,  or  awkward,  or  tiresome;  in 
fine,  there  is  always  something,  if  it  were  only  the  tip  of 
his  ear. 

Yes,  until  I  have  found  my  master  nothing  else  shall  cap- 
tivate me;  thanks  to  my  readiness  in  discovering  the  defects 
of  people,  not  all  the  Adonises  in  the  world  could  tempt  me 
to  fall  in  love. 

Friday,  May  3. — There  are  moments  when  one  would 
give  up  all  the  intellectual  pleasures  in  the  world,  glory  and 
art  itself,  to  live  in  Italy  a  life  of  sunshine,,  music,  and  love. 

Thursday,  May  9. — I  might  possess  a  beautiful  hand  if 
my  fingers  had  not  been  vilely  disfigured  by  playing  on 
stringed  instruments,  and  by  biting  my  nails. 

My  form  like  that  of  a  Greek  goddess,  my  hips  too  much 
like  those  of  a  Spanish  woman,  perhaps;  my  bust  small  and 
perfect  in  shape;  my  feet,  my  hands,  and  my  childlike 
countenance — of  what  use  are  they,  since  no  one  loves  me? 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASURIRTSEFF.  163 

Thursday,  May  30. — As  a  general  thing,  the  family  and 
friends  of  great  men  do  not  believe  in  their  genius:  in  my 
case  it  is  too  much  the  other  way;  that  is  to  say,  that  it 
would  not  surprise  my  family  if  I  were  to  paint  a  picture 
as  large  as  Medusa's  raft,  and  receive  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  for  it.  Is  this  a  bad  sign?  I  hope  not. 

V 

Friday,  May  31. — The  hardest  thing  to  bear  is  to  be  con- 
tinually disappointed  in  those  nearest  to  us.  To  find  a 
serpent  where  one  had  expected  to  find  flowers,  that  is 
indeed  horrible.  But  these  constant  shocks  have  produced 
in  me  at  last  a  species  of  indifference  to  them.  No  matter 
what  is  passing  around  me  I  take  no  notice  now.  I  put  my 
head  out  of  the  door  only  to  go  to  the  studio. 

You  think,  perhaps,  that  this  is  the  resignation  of  despair; 
it  is  the  result  of  despair,  but  it  is  a  sweet  and  tranquil  feel- 
ing, although  a  sad  one. 

Instead  of  being  rose-colored  my  life  is  gray,  that  is  all. 

I  have  accepted  my  fate  and  I  am  resigned  to  it. 

My  character  has  changed  completely,  and  the  change 
seems  to  be  a  permanent  one;  I  no  longer  have  need  even 
of  wealth;  two  black  blouses  a  year,  a  change  of  linen  that 
I  could  wash  myself  on  Sundays,  and  the  simplest  food, 
provided  it  does  not  taste  of  onions  and  is  fresh,  and — the 
means  to  work;  these  are  all  I  want. 

No  carriages;  the  omnibus  or  to  goon  foot:  at  the  stu- 
dio I  wear  shoes  without  heels. 

But  why  live  at  all  then?  In  the  hope  that  better  days 
will  come,  and  that  is  a  hope  that  never  abandons  us. 

Everything  is  relative:  thus,  compared  to  my  past  tor- 
tures the  present  is  ease;  I  enjoy  it  as  an  agreeable  change. 
In  January  I  will  be  nineteen:  Moussia  will  be  nineteen. 
It  is  absurd;  it  is  impossible;  it  is  frightful. 

Sometimes  I  am  seized  with  a  fancy  to  dress  myself,  to  go 
out  for  a  walk,  to  go  to  the  opera,  to  the  Bois,  to  the  Salon, 


164  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [187$. 

to  the  Exhibition;  but  I  say  to  myself,  "What  for?"  and  I 
sink  back  again  into  my  former  state  of  apathy. 

For  every  word  I  write  I  think  a  million  thoughts;  I  ex- 
press my  thoughts  only  by  fragments. 

What  a  misfortune  for  posterity! 

It  may  not  be  a  misfortune  for  posterity,  but  it  prevents 
me  from  being  able  to  make  myself  understood. 

I  am  jealous  of  Breslau;  she  does  not  draw  at  all  like  a 
woman.  Next  week  I  will  work  so  hard! — you  shall  see. 
The  afternoons  shall  be  devoted  to  the  Exhibition,  and  the 
Salon.  But  the  week  after —  I  am  resolved  to  be  a  great 
artist,  and  I  will  be  one. 

Monday,  June  3. — In  heart,  soul,  and  thought  I  am  a 
republican. 

Let  titles  be  preserved,  but  let  there  be  equality  of  rights 
before  the  law;  any  other  sort  of  equality  than  this  is  im- 
possible. 

Let  ancient  families  continue  to  be  respected,  foreign 
potentates  honored;  let  arts  and  all  that  contributes  to  the 
comfort  and  the  elegance  of  life  be  protected.  The  repub- 
licans are  reproached  with  having  in  their  ranks  a  few  mis- 
erable wretches.  And  where  is  the  party  that  has  not  had 
such  ? 

If  France  were  to  become  altogether  Legitimist  or  alto- 
gether Imperialist,  would  every  one  then  be  pure  and  virtu- 
ous ? — Good-night — I  write  so  fast  that  what  I  am  saying 
is  little  better  than  the  ravings  of  a  lunatic. 

Wednesday,  June  12. — To-morrow  I  resume  my  work, 
which  I  have  neglected  since  Saturday.  My  conscience 
reproaches  me  for  it.  and  to-morrow  everything  will  return 
to  its  accustomed  order 

M.  Rouher  surprised  me  in  many  things.  I  was  surprised 
at  myself  for  employing  so  much  tact  and  so  much  delicate 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  165 

flattery.  Gavini  and  the  Baron  evidently  approved  of  me 
unreservedly,  and  M.  Rouher  himself  was  pleased.  They 
talked  of  votes,  of  laws,  of  pamphlets,  of  loyalists,  of  traitors, 
before  me.  Did  I  listen  ?  You  may  well  believe  it.  It  was 
like  the  opening  of  a  door  into  Paradise. 

I  am  sorry  I  am  a  woman,  and  M.  Rouher  is  sorry  he  is  a 
man.  *'  Women,"  he  said,  "are  exempt  from  the  annoy- 
ances and  the  cares  that  we  have." 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  remark,  Monsieur,"  I  said,  "  that 
men  and  women  alike  have  their  cares  and  their  annoy- 
ances ;  the  only  difference  is  that  the  cares  of  men  bring 
with  them  honors,  fame,  and  popularity  ;  while  the  cares  of 
women  are  attended  by  no  advantage  whatever." 

"You  believe,  then,  Mademoiselle,  that  our  cares  always 
bring  us  those  compensations  ?  " 

"  I  think,  Monsieur,"  I  answered,  "  that  that  depends 
upon  the  man." 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  entered  all  at  once  into 
the  conversation  like  this  ;  I  remained  quietly  in  my  corner 
for  fully  ten  minutes,  embarrassed  enough,  for  the  old  fox 
did  not  seem  to  be  charmed  at  the  presentation. 

Shall  I  tell  you  something  ? 

I  was  enchanted. 

Now  I  have  a  mind  to  repeat  to  you  all  the  fine  things  I 
said,  but  I  must  not.  I  will  only  say  that  I  did  my  best  not 
to  use  hackneyed  phrases,  and  to  appear  full  of  good  sense  ; 
in  that  way  you  will  think  my  speeches  finer  than  they 
really  were. 

Gavini  remarked  that  the  Bonapartists  were  happy  in 
having  the  sympathies  of  all  the  pretty  women  with  them, 
bowing  to  me  as  he  said  so. 

"  Monsieur,"  I  answered,  addressing  myself  to  M.  Rouher, 
"  I  do  not  give  my  sympathies  to  your  party  as  a  woman,  I 
give  them  as  an  honest  man  might  do." 


1 66  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

Wednesday,  July  3. — M came  to  say  good-by,  and  as 

it  was  raining,  he  proposed  to  accompany  us  to  the  Exhi- 
bition. 

We  accepted  ;  before  we  went,  however,  he  and  I  being 
alone  together  for  a  moment,  he  entreated  me  not  to  be  so 
cruel. 

"  You  know  how  madly  I  love  you,"  he  said,  "  and  how 
much  you  make  me  suffer.  If  you  could  but  know  how 
terrible  a  thing  it  is  to  see  only  mocking  smiles,  to  hear 
only  words  of  raillery  when  one  truly  loves  !  " 

"  You  only  imagine  all  that." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  swear  it  to  you  ;  I  am  ready  to  give  you  the 
proofs  of  it — the  most  absolute  devotion,  the  fidelity  and 
the  patience  of  a  dog  !  Say  but  a  word  !  say  that  you  have 
some  confidence  in  me — why  do  you  treat  me  as  a  buffoon, 
as  a  being  of  an  inferior  race  ?  " 

"  I  treat  you  as  I  treat  everybody." 

"  And  why  ?  since  you  know  that  my  affection  is  not  like 
that  of  everybody — that  I  am  heart  and  soul  devoted  to 
you  ? " 

"I  am  accustomed  to  inspiring  that  sentiment." 

"  But  not  such  a  love  as  mine.  Let  me  believe  that  your 
feelings  toward  me  are  not  altogether  those  of  hatred." 

"Of  hatred  ?     Oh,  no  ;    I  assure  you  they  are  not  that." 

"  The  most  terrible  feeling  of  all  for  me  would  be  indif- 
ference." 

"  Ah,  well !— " 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  forget  me  in  the  few 
months  I  shall  be  away." 

"It  will  not  be  in  my  power  to  do  so." 

"  Let  me  remind  you  from  time  to  time  that  I  am  still  in 
existence.  Perhaps  I  may  amuse  you,  perhaps  I  may  make 
you  laugh.  Let  me  hope  that  sometimes,  occasionally,  you 
will  send  me  a  word — a  single  word." 

"What  is  it  you  are  saying  ?  " 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  167 

"Oh,  without  signing  your  name;  simply  this:  'I  am 
well  '  ;  only  this,  and  that  will  make  me  so  happy." 

"  Whatever  I  write  I  sign  my  name  to,  and  I  never  deny 
my  signature." 

"  You  will  grant  me  your  permission  to  write  ? " 

"  I  am  like  Figaro;    I  receive  letters  from  all  quarters." 

"  God  !  if  you  .but  knew  how  maddening  it  is  never  to 
be  able  to  obtain  a  serious  word — to  be  always  scoffed  at ! 
Let  us  talk  seriously.  You  will  not  let  it  be  said  that  you 
had 'no  pity  for  me  in  the  moment  of  my  departure  !  If  I 
might  only  hope  that  my  devotion,  my  regard  for  you,  my 
love — impose  any  conditions  you  choose,  put  me  to  the 
test.  If  I  might  only  hope  that  one  day  you  will  be  kinder, 
that  you  will  not  always  mock  me  ? " 

"  As  far  as  tests  are  concerned,"  I  replied  very  seriously, 
"  there  is  only  one  test  that  can  be  relied  upon." 

"  And  that  ?     I  am  ready  to  do  anything." 

"  That  is  time." 

"  Be  it  so,  then.  Put  my  affection  to  the  test  of  time  ; 
you  shall  see  that  it  will  stand  it." 

"  That  would  cause  me  great  pleasure." 

"But  tell  me,  have  you  confidence  in  me  ?" 

"  How,  confidence  ?  I  have  confidence  enough  in  you  to 
entrust  you  with  a  letter  with  the  certainty  that  you  will  not 
open  it." 

"  No  !  not  that !  but  an  absolute  confidence." 

"  What  grand  words  !  " 

"  And  is  not  my  love  for  you  something  grand  ? "  he 
said  softly. 

"  I  ask  nothing  better  than  to  believe  it ;  such  things 
flatter  a  woman's  vanity.  And,  stay,  I  should  really  like  to 
have  some  confidence  in  you." 

"Truly?" 

"  Truly." 

This  is  enough,  is  it  not  ?     We  went  to  the  Exhibition, 


j68  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

and  I  was  vexed  to  see  that  M was  in  high  spirits,  and 

made  love  to  me  as  if  I  had  accepted  him. 

I  experienced  a  feeling  of  genuine  satisfaction  this  even- 
ing. I  find  that  M 's  love  produces  precisely  the  same 

emotions  in  me  as  did  that  of  A .  You  see,  then,  that 

I  did  not  love  Pietro  !  I  was  not  even  for  a  moment  in 
love  with  him,  though  I  came  very  near  being  so.  But  you 
know  what  a  horrible  disinchantment  that  was. 

You  understand  that  I  have  no  intention  of  marrying 
M . 

"  True  love  is  always  a  sentiment  to  be  respected,"  I  said 
to  him  ;  "  you  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  yours  ;  only 
don't  get  foolish  notions  into  your  head." 

"  Give  me  your  friendship." 

"  Vain  word  !  " 

"  Then  your — " 

"  Your  demands  are  exorbitant." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  say,  then  ?  You  are  not  willing  that 
I  should  try  to  gain  your  affection  by  degrees — that  I 
should  begin  by  friendship — " 

"  Friendship  !     A  chimera  !  " 

"  Love,  then  ?" 

"You  are  mad." 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  hate  you  !  " 

Friday,  July  5.  ...  After  the  concert  my  aunt  took  the 
arm  of  Etienne,  Dina  Philippini's,  and  I  the  other's.  The 

night  was  so  lovely  that  we  walked  home.  M ,  who 

was  restored  to  good-humor,  spoke  to  me  of  his  affection 
for  me.  It  is  always  thus  ;  I  do  not  love  him,  but  the  fire 
of  his  love  warms  me  ;  this  is  the  same  feeling  that  I  mis- 
took for  love  two  years  ago  ! 

I  was  touched  by  the  words  he  spoke  ;  he  even  shed 
tears.  As  we  approached  the  house  I  grew  more  serious  ; 


1878  ]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  169 

I  was  moved  by  the  beauty  of  the  night  and  by  those  melo- 
dious words  of  love.  Ah,  how  delightful  it  is  to  be  loved  ! 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  delightful  as  that.  I  know 

now  that  M loves  me.  One  does  not  act  a  part  like 

that.  And  if  it  were  my  money  he  wanted,  my  disdain 
would  have  caused  him  to  abandon  his  pretensions  before 
this  ;  and  there  is  Dina,  whom  every  one  believes  to  be  as 
rich  as  I,  and  plenty  of  other  girls  he  might  marry  if  he 

chose.  M is  not  a  beggar  ;  he  is  in  every  sense  a 

gentleman.  He  could  have  found,  and  he  will  find,  some 
one  else  to  love. 

M is  very  amiable.  Perhaps  it  was  wrong  of  me  to 

let  him  hold  my  hand  in  his  as  long  as  he  did  when  we  were 
about  to  part.  He  kissed  it ;  but  I  owed  him  that  much  ; 
and  then  he  loves  me  and  respects  me  so  much,  poor  fellow! 
I  questioned  him  as  if  he  were  a  child.  I  wanted  to  know 
how  it  had  happened,  and  when.  He  fell  in  love  with  me 
at  first  sight,  it  seems.  "  But  it  is  a  strange  kind  of  love," 
he  said  ;  "  other  women  are  to  me  only  women,  but  you 
are  a  being  superior  to  the  rest  of  humanity  ;  it  is  a 
curious  sentiment.  I  know  that  you  treat  me  as  if  I 
was  a  hump-backed  buffoon  ;  that  you  have  no  feeling, 
no  heart ;  and  yet  I  love  you.  And  I — at  the  same 
lime  that  I  adore  you  I  know  that  our  characters  are  not 
congenial." 

I  listened  to  all  he  had  to  say,  for  to  tell  the  truth  a 
lover's  speeches  are  more  amusing  than  all  the  plays  in  the 
world,  unless  when  one  goes  to  them  to  show  herself.  But 
that,  too,  is  a  sort  of  adoration  ;  you  are  looked  at,  you  are 
admired,  and  you  feel  your  being  expand  like  the  flower 
under  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

SODEN,  Sun  Jay,  July  7.— We  left  Paris  for  this  place  at 
seven.  .  .  .  Imagine  yourself  transported,  from  Pans  to 
Soden.  "  The  silence  of  death"  feebly  describes  the  calm 


I?o  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1879. 

that  reigns  at  Soden.  I  am  confused  by  it  as  one  is  con- 
fused by  too  much  noise.  .  .  . 

Dr.  Tilenius  has  just  gone.  He  put  the  necessary  ques- 
tions to  me  regarding  my  illness,  but  did  not  say  after- 
wards, like  the  French  doctor  : 

"  Very  good  ;  this  is  nothing  ;  in  a  week  we  shall  have 
you  well,  Mademoiselle." 

To-morrow  I  am  to  begin  a  course  of  treatment. 

The  trees  here  are  beautiful,  the  air  is  pure,  the  landscape 
sets  off  my  face.  At  Paris  I  am  only  pretty,  if  I  am  that ; 
here  there  is  in  my  appearance  a  certain  poetic  languor  ; 
my  eyes  are  larger,  and  my  cheeks  less  rounded. 

SODEN,  Tuesday,  July  9. — How  tired  I  am  of  all  these 
doctors  !  I  have  had  my  throat  examined — pharyngitis, 
laryngitis,  and  catarrh  !  Nothing  more  ! 

I  amuse  myself  reading  Livy  and  taking  notes  of  what  I 
read  in  the  evening.  I  must  read  Roman  history. 

Tuesday,  July  16. — I  am  resolved  on  being  famous, 
whether  it  be  as  an  artist  or  in  any  other  way.  Do  not 
think,  however,  that  I  am  studying  art  only  through  vanity. 
Perhaps  there  are  not  many  persons  more  completely  artis- 
tic in  their  natures  than  I — a  fact  which  you,  who  are  the 
intelligent  part  of  my  readers,  must  have  already  perceived. 
As  for  the  others,  I  regard  them  with  contempt.  They  will 
find  me  only  fantastic,  because,  without  desiring  to  be  so, 
I  am  peculiar  in  everything. 

Wednesday,  July  24. — Dr.  Tomachewsky,  who  is  physi- 
cian to  the  opera-troupe  at  St.  Petersburg,  must  know 
something  ;  besides  his  opinion  is  the  same  as  that  of  Dr. 
Fauvel  and  the  others  ;  and  then  I  know  myself  that  the 
waters  at  Soderj,  from  their  chemical  composition,  are 
hardly  at  all  suited  to  my  disease.  If  you  are  not  very 


1878.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASSKIRTSEFP.  171 

ignorant,  you  must  know  that  they  send  only  convalescents 
and  consumptives  to  Soden. 

At  six  o'clock  this  morning  my  aunt  and  I,  accompanied 
by  Dr.  Tomachevvsky,  went  to  Ems,  to  consult  the  doctors 
ihere. 

We  have  just  returned. 

The  Empress  Eugenie  is  at  Ems.     Poor  woman  ! 

Friday. — For  some  days  past  I  have  been  thinking  of 
Nice.  I  was  fifteen  when  I  was  there,  and  how  pretty  I 
was !  My  figure,  my  feet,  and  my  hands  were  not  perhaps 
as  perfect  as  now,  but  my  face  was  ravishing.  It  has  never 
beer,  the  same  since.  On  my  return  to  Rome,  Count  Lau- 
rent: almost  made  a  scene  about  me. 

"  Your  face  has  changed,"  he  said  ;  "  the  features,  the 
coloring  are  as  before,  but  the  expression  is  not  the  same. 
You  will  never  again  be  like  that  portrait." 

He  alluded  to  the  portrait  in  which  I  am  represented 
resting  my  elbows  on  the  table  and  my  cheek  on  my  clasped 
hands.*  "  You  look  as  if  you  had  fallen  naturally  into  that 
position,  and  with  your  eyes  fixed  upon  the  future,  were 
asking  yourself,  half  in  terror,  '  Is  that  what  life  is  like  ? " 

At  fifteen  there  was  a  childlike  expression  in  my  face 
that  was  not  there  before,  and  has  not  been  there  since,  and 
this  is  the  most  captivating  of  all  expressions. 

Wednesday,  August  7.— My  God,  ordain  that  I  may  go  to 
Rome.  If  you  only  knew,  my  God,  how  I  long  to  go  there  ! 
My  God,  be  merciful  to  your  unworthy  creature  !  My 
God,  ordain  that  I  may  go  to  Rome  !  No  doubt  it  will  not 
be  possible  for  me  to  go,  for  that  would  be  to  be  too  happy  ! 

It  is  not  Livy  who  has  been  putting  these  thoughts  into 
my  head,  for  I  have  neglected  my  old  friend  for  several 

days  past.  

*  See  Frontispiece. 


I72  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

No  ;  but  only  to  remember  the  Campagna,  the  Piazza  del 
Popolo,  and  the  Pincio,  with  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
shining  upon  it ! 

And  that  divine,  that  adorable  morning  twilight,  when 
the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  begin  to  give  form  and  color 
to  surrounding  objects — what  a  blank  everywhere  else  ! 
And  what  sacred  emotions  the  remembrance  of  the  wcn- 
drous,  the  enchanted  city  awakens  !  Nor  am  I  the  only  one 
whom  Rome  inspires  with  these  feelings,  which  no  wcrds 
can  be  found  to  express — feelings  due  to  the  mysterious 
influence  exercised  over  the  mind  by  the  blending  of  the 
traditions  of  the  fabulous  past  with  the  sanctified  associa- 
tions of  the  present,  or  perhaps — But  no,  I  cannot  explain 
what  I  would  say.  If  I  were  in  love,  it  is  in  Rome,  in  the 
presence  of  the  setting  sun,  as  its  last  rays  fall  upon  the 
divine  dome,  that  I  would  make  the  avowal  to  him  I  loved. 

If  I  were  to  receive  some  crushing  blow,  it  is  to  Rome  I 
would  go  to  weep  and  pray  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  that 
dome.  If  I  were  to  become  the  happiest  of  human  beings, 
it  is  there,  too,  that  I  would  go. 

PARIS,  Saturday,  August  17. — This  morning  we  were  still 
at  Soden. 

I  detest  Paris.  I  do  not  deny  that  it  may  be  possible  to 
live  there  happier  and  more  contented  than  elsewhere  ;  that 
one  may  lead  there  acompleter,  a  more  intellectual,  a  more 
renowned  existence.  But  for  the  kind  of  life  I  lead  one 
needs  to  love  the  city  itself.  I  find  cities,  like  individuals, 
sympathetic  or  antipathetic  to  me,  and  I  cannot  succeed  in 
liking  Paris. 

I  am  afflicted  with  a  terrible  disease.  I  am  disgusted  with 
myself.  It  is  not  the  first  time  I  hate  myself,  but  that  does 
not  make  it  the  less  terrible. 

To  hate  another  whom  one  may  avoid  is  bad  enough,  but 
to  hate  one's-self — that  is  terrible, 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  173 

Thursday,  August  29.— I  don't  know  by  what  providen- 
tial chance  I  happened  to  be  late  this  morning,  but  they 
came  at  nine,  before  I  was  yet  dressed,  to  tell  me  that 
grandpapa  was  worse.  Mamma,  my  aunt,  and  Dina  were 
crying.  ...  At  ten  the  priest  arrived  and  in  a  few  minutes 
all  was  over. 

Wednesday,  September  4. — Kant  has  said  that  the  material 
world  exists  only  in  the  imagination.  That  is  going  too 
far,  but  I  accept  his  system  when  the  domain  of  feeling  is  in 
question.  In  effect,  our  feelings  are  caused  by  the  impres- 
sions produced  on  us  by  things  or  persons  ;  but,  since 
objects  are  not  objects — in  other  words,  since  they  possess 
no  objective  value  and  exist  only  in  our  minds— But  in 
order  to  follow  up  this  train  of  argument,  it  would,  be  neces- 
sary for  me  not  to  have  to  hurry  to  bed,  and  think  at  what 
hour  in  the  morning  I  must  begin  my  picture  to  have  it 
finished  by  Saturday.  .  .  . 

I  have  a  passion  for  all  those  learned,  patiently  conducted, 
abracadabrante  follies — these  arguments,  these  deductions, 
so  logical,  so  learned.  There  is  only  one  thing  about  them 
that  grieves  me,  and  that  is  that  I  feel  them  to  be  false, 
though  I  have  neither  the  time  nor  the  inclination  to  find 
out  why. 

I  should  like  to  have  some  one  to  discuss  all  these  matters 
with.  I  lead  a  very  lonely  life.  But  I  declare  beforehand 
that  I  have  no  desire  to  impose  -my  own  opinions  on  other 
people,  and  that  I  would  willingly  acknowledge  the  justness 
of  their  arguments  when  I  saw  them  to  be  in  the  right. 

Without  wishing  to  be  thought  ridiculous  by  the  preten- 
sion, I  long  to  listen  to  the  discourse  of  learned  men  ;  I 
long,  oh,  so  much,  to  penetrate  into  the  precincts  of  the 
intellectual  world  ;  to  see,  to  hear,  to  learn.  But  I  neither 
know  how  to  set  about  doing  so  myself,  nor  whom  to  ask 
advice  of  ;  and  I  remain  here  in  my  corner,  dazed  and  won- 


TJ4  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

dering,  not  knowing  what  direction  to  take,  and  catching 
glimpses  on  all  sides  of  treasures  of  art,  of  history,  of  lan- 
guages, science — a  whole  world  in  short.  I  long  to  see 
everything,  to  know  e*verything,  to  learn  everything ! 

Friday,  September  13. — I  am  not  in  my  right  place  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  There  are  statues  that  are  admirable,  set  on 
a  pedestal  in  the  middle  of  a  grand  square,  but  put  them  in 
a  room  and  you  will  see  how  stupid  they  look,  and  how 
much  they  are  in  the  way.  You  will  knock  your  head  or 
your  elbow  against  them  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  you  will 
end  by  finding  detestable  and  unbearable  that  which,  in  its 
proper  place,  would  have  excited  the  admiration  of  every 
one. 

If  you  find  "  statue  "  too  flattering  a  word  for  me,  change 
it  for — whatever  word  you  choose. 

When  I  have  finished  Livy  I  shall  read  Michelet's  history 
of  France,  and  afterward  the  Greek  authors,  whom  I  know 
only  from  allusions  to  them  or  quotations  from  them  in  other 
books,  and  then — My  books  are  all  packed  away,  and  we 
must  take  a  more  settled  lodging  than  our  present  one 
before  unpacking  them. 

I  have  read  Aristophanes,  Plutarch,  HeYodotus,  a  little 
of  Xenophon,  and  that  is  all,  I  think.  And  then  I  am  very 
familiar  with  Homer,  and  slightly  so  with  Plato. 

Thursday,  October  3. — We  spent  almost  four  hours  to-day 
at  a  dramatic  and  musical  international  entertainment. 
They  gave  scenes  from  Aristophanes  in  hideous  cos- 
tumes, and  so  abridged,  arranged,  and  altered  that  it  was 
frightful. 

What  was  superb,  however,  was  a  dramatic  recitation  — 
Christopher  Columbus — in  Italian,  by  Rossi.  What  a 
voice  !  What  intonation  !  What  expression  !  What  truth 
to  nature  !  It  was  better  than  the  music.  I  think  one 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  175 

could  feel  the  charm  of  it  even  without  understanding  a 
word  of  Italian. 

I  almost  worshiped  him  as  I  listened. 

Ah,  what  a  power  lies  in  spoken  words,  even  when  they 
are  not  our  own  words,  but  those  of  another!  The  hand- 
some Mounet-Sully  recited  afterward,  but  I  shall  say  noth- 
ing of  him.  Rossi  is  a  great  artist;  he  has  the  soul  of  an 
artist;  I  saw  him  talking  with  two  men  at  the  door  of  the 
theater,  and  he  had  a  common  air.  He  is  an  actor,  it  is 
true,  but  so  great  an  actor  as  he  is  should  have  a  certain 
greatness  of  character  even  in  every-day  life.  I  noticed 
his  eyes;  they  are  not  those  of  a  common  man,  though  the 
charm  exists  only  while  he  speaks.  Then  it  is  wonderful! 
What  nihilists  are  those  who  despise  the  arts! 

What  a  frightful  existence  mine  is !  If  I  possessed  genius 
I  might  be  able  to  change  it,  but  my  genius  must  be  taken 
on  trust;  you  have  nothing  but  my  word  for  it.  Where 
have  I  given  any  proof,  any  evidence  of  genius? 

Monday,  October  7. — Stupid  people  may  fancy  that  I  want 
to  be  another  Balzac.  I  have  no  such  intention;  but  do  you 
know  why  he  is  so  great?  It  is  because  he  describes  with 
naturalness,  without  fear,  and  without  affectation  all  that  he 
has  felt.  Almost  every  intelligent  person  has  had  the  same 
thoughts,  but  who  has  expressed  them  as  he  has? 

No,  it  is  not  true  that  almost  every  one  has  had  the  same 
thoughts,  but  in  reading  Balzac  one  is  so  struck  with  his 
truth,  with  his  naturalness,  that  one  thinks  one  has.  It  has 
happened  to  me  a  hundred  times  in  conversation,  or  in  re- 
flection, to  be  horribly  tormented  by  thoughts  that  I  had 
not  the  power  to  disentangle  from  the  frightful  chaos  of  my 
mind. 

I  have  also  another  pretension;  it  is  this:  when  I  make 
any  just  or  profound  observation  I  fear  people  may  not 
understand  me. 


I?6  JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1878. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  they  do  not  understand  me  as  I  wish  to 
be  understood. 

Good-night,  good  people. 

Sunday,  October  20. — I  ordered  the  carriage  at  nine 
o'clock  this  morning,  and  accompanied  by  my  demoiselle 
d'honneur,  Mile.  Elsnitz,  went  to  visit  Saint-Philippe's,  the 
church  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  and  Notre  Dame.  I  went 
up  into  the  tower  and  examined  the  bells  just  as  any  English- 
woman might  have  done.  Well,  there  is  a  Paris  to  be  ad- 
mired— it  is  old  Paris;  and  one  might  be  happy  there,  but 
only  on  condition  of  keeping  away  from  the  boulevards  and 
the  Champs  Elysees;  in  fine,  from  all  the  new  and  beautiful 
quarters  of  the  city  which  I  detest,  and  which  irritate  my 
nerves.  In  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  however,  one  feels 
altogether  different. 

We  went  afterward  to  the  School  of  Fine  Arts;  it  is 
enough  to  make  one  cry  out  with  rage. 

Why  can  I  not  study  there?  Why  can  I  not  have  a 
course  of  instruction  as  complete  as  that?  I  went  to  see  the 
exhibition  of  the  Prix  de  Rome.  The  second  prize  was 
awarded  to  a  pupil  of  Julian's.  Julian  is  consequently 
very  happy.  If  I  am  ever  rich  I  will  found  a  school  of  arts 
for  women. 

Saturday,  October  26. — My  painting  was  much  better 
than  the  previous  ones,  and  my  drawing  from  the  nude  very 

good.  M.  T distributed  the  prizes  at  the  concours — 

Breslau  first,  I  second. 

In  short,  I  ought  to  be  satisfied. 

Sunday,  November  3. — Mamma,  Dina,  Mme.  X- and 

I  went  to-day  to  take  an  airing  together.  They  want  to 
marry  me,  but  I  told  them  plainly,  so  as  not  to  be  made  use 
of  to  enrich  some  monsieur,  that  I  was  quite  willing  to 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  177 

marry,  but  only  on  condition  that  the  person  should  be 
either  rich,  of  a  good  family  and  handsome,  or  else  a  man 
of  genius,  or  of  note.  As  for  his  character,  if  he  were 
Satan  himself,  I  will  take  charge  of  that. 

Saturday,  November  9. — It  is  a  shameful  thing!  There 
was  no  medal  at  all!  All  the  same,  I  am  first;  I  think  I 
should  have  been  so  even  if  Breslau  had  exhibited,  in  which 
case  they  would  have  made  two  firsts.  This  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  matter, — however,  the  fact  is  the  same. 

Wednesday,  November  13. — Robert-Fleury  came  to  the 
studio  this  evening.  It  would  be  useless  to  repeat  the 
words  of  encouragement  he  spoke  after  giving  me  a  long 
lesson;  if  what  they  all  say  be  true,  you  will  know  by  the 
time  you  read  this  what  opinion  to  entertain  of  me. 

It  is  a  happiness,  all  the  same,  however,  to  find  that  peo- 
ple take  you  altogether  in  earnest.  I  am  very  silly;  I  en- 
tertain the  greatest  hopes  with  regard  to  myself,  and  when 
people  tell  me  I  have  realized  them  I  am  transported  with 
joy,  as  if  I  had  never  had  any  hopes  at  all.  I  am  as  much 
surprised  at  my  good  fortune,  and  as  delighted  with  it,  as  a 
monster  might  be  with  whom  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  world  had  fallen  in  love. 

Robert-Fleury  is  an  excellent  teacher:  he  leads  one  on- 
ward by  degrees,  so  that  one  is  conscious  at  every  step  of 
the  progress  one  is  making.  To-night  he  treated  me  some- 
what like  a  pupil  who  has  learned  her  scales  and  to  whom 
for  the  first  time  a  piece  of  music  is  given  to  play.  He  has 
lifted  the  corner  of  the  veil  and  disclosed  to  me  a  vaster  hori- 
zon. It  is  a  night  that  will  hold  a  place  apart  in  my  studies. 

In  the  matter  of  drawing  I  am  the  equal  of  Breslau,  but 
she  has  had  more  practice  than  I.  Now,  I  must  give  my- 
self a  certain  number  of  months  to  paint  as  she  does,  for, 
if  I  cannot  do  that,  there  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  my 


I?8  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFf.          [1878. 

work.  But  she  will  not  stand  still  during  the  eight  or  ten 
months  I  shall  allow  myself.  I  should  therefore  be  obliged 
to  progress  so  fast  as  to  make  up  this  time  in  the  eight  or 
ten  months  we  shall  continue  working  together,  which  does 
not  seem  to  me  probable.  Well,  by  the  grace  of  God,  we 
shall  see. 

I  looked  all  of  a  sudden  so  beautiful,  after  I  had  taken 
my  bath  this  evening,  that  I  spent  fully  twenty  minutes 
admiring  myself  in  the  glass.  I  am  sure  no  one  could  have 
seen  me  without  admiration  ;  my  complexion  was  absolutely 
dazzling,  but  soft  and  delicate,  with  a  faint  rose  tint  in  the 
cheeks;  to  indicate  force  of  character  there  was  nothing  but 
the  lips  and  the  eyes  and  eyebrows. 

Do  not,  I  beg  of  you,  think  me  blinded  by  vanity:  when 
I  do  not  look  pretty  I  can  see  it  very  well ;  and  this  is  the 
first  time  that  I  have  looked  pretty  in  a  long  while.  Paint- 
ing absorbs  everything. 

What  is  odious  to  think  of  is  that  all  this  must  one  day 
fade,  shrivel  up,  and  perish! 

Thursday,  November  21. — Breslau  has  painted  a  cheek  so 
true  to  nature,  so  perfect,  that  I,  a  woman  and  a  rival  artist, 
felt  like  kissing  it. 

Friday,  November  22. — I  am  terrified  when  I  think  of 
the  future  that  awaits  Breslau ;  it  fills  me  with  wonder  and 
sadness. 

In  her  compositions  there  is  nothing  womanish,  common- 
place, or  disproportioned.  She  will  attract  attention  at  the 
Salon,  for,  in  addition  to  her  treatment  of  it,  the  subject 
itself  will  not  be  a  common  one.  It  is  stupid,  indeed,  of 
me  to  be  jealous  of  her.  I  am  a  child  in  art,  and  she  is 
a  woman.  For  the  moment  the  light  seems  hidden,  and 
everything  is  dark  before  me. 

Friday,  December  27. — This  week  has  been  lost  to  me  for 


1878.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  179 

study.  For  the  past  three  days  I  have  wanted  to  write 
down  some  reflections — what  about,  I  do  not  exactly  know; 
but,  distracted  from  my  purpose  by  the  singing  of  the 
young  lady  on  the  second  story,  I  began  to  glance  through 
the  account  of  my  journey  in  Italy,  and  afterward  some 
one  came  to  interrupt  me.  and  I  lost  the  thread  of  my 
ideas,  together  with  that  feeling  of  gentle  melancholy  in 
which  it  is  so  pleasant  to  indulge. 

What  surprises  me  now  is  to  see  what  grandiloquent 
words  I  employed  to  describe  the  simplest  incidents. 

But  my  mind  was  full  of  lofty  sentiments,  and  it  irritated 
me  to  have  no  wonderful,  startling,  or  romantic  situations 
to  describe,  and  I  interpreted  my  feelings.  Artists  will 
know  what  I  mean.  This  is  very  well;  but  what  I  cannot 
understand  is  how  a  girl  who  pretends  to  be  intelligent  did 
not  better  learn  to  estimate  the  value  of  men  and  things.  I 
say  this  because  the  thought  has  just  suggested  itself  to  me 
that  my  family  ought  to  have  enlightened  me  on  such  sub- 
jects, and  told  me,  for  instance,  that  A was  a  person  of 

no  worth,  and  one  on  whose  account  one  should  not  give 
one's-self  the  slightest  trouble.  It  is  true  that  they  took  a 
mistaken  view  of  the  matter  altogether,  my  mother  having 
even  less  experience  of  the  world  than  I,  but  that  is  only 
by  the  way,  and,  as  I  had  so  high  an  opinion  of  my  own 
intelligence,  I  should  have  made  some  use  of  it,  and  treated 
him  as  I  did  others,  instead  of  bestowing  so  much  attention 
on  him,  both  in  my  journal  and  elsewhere. 

But  I  was  burning  with  the  desire  to  have  something 
romantic  to  record,  and,  fool  that  I  was  !  things  could  not 
have  turned  out  less  romantic  than  they  did.  In  a  word,  I 
was  young  and  inexperienced  ;  notwithstanding  all  my  folly 
and  all  my  boasting,  this  is  the  confession  I  must  make  at 
last,  no  matter  what  it  costs  me  to  do  so. 

And  now  I  think  I  hear  some  one  say  :  "  A  strong-minded 


180  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1878. 

woman  such  as  you  should  never  have  occasion  to  retract 
her  words." 


Sunday,  December  29. — I  have  lost  my  hold  on  art,  and  I 
cannot  take  up  anything  else  in  its  place.  My  books  are 
packed  up,  I  am  losing  my  knowledge  of  Latin  and  of 
classic  literature,  and  I  am  growing  altogether  stupid. 
The  sight  of  a  temple,  a  column,  or  an  Italian  landscape 
fills  me  with  loathing  for  this  Paris,  so  cold,  so  learned,  so 
wise,  so  polished.  The  men  here  are  ugly.  This  city, 
which  is  a  paradise  for  superior  natures,  has  no  charms  for 
me.  Ah,  I  have  deceived  myself  :  I  am  neither  wise  nor 
happy.  I  long  to  go  to  Italy,  to  travel,  to  see  mountains, 
lakes,  forests,  seas.  In  the  company  of  my  family,  with 
parcels,  recriminations,  annoyances,  the  petty  disputes  of 
every  day  ?  Ah,  no  ;  a  hundred  times  no  ?  To  enjoy  the 

delights  of  travel  one  must  wait  for .  And  the  time  is 

passing.  Well,  so  much  the  worse.  I  might  marry  an 
Italian  prince  at  any  time,  if  I  wished  to  do  so.  Let  me  then, 
wait. 

You  see  if  I  married  an  Italian  prince  I  might  still  be  an 
artist,  since  the  money  would  be  mine.  But  then  I  should 
have  to  give  him  some  of  it.  Meantime  I  shall  remain  here 
and  work  on  at  my  painting. 

On  Saturday  they  thought  my  drawing  not  at  all  bad. — 
You  understand  that  it  is  only  with  an  Italian  I  could  live 
in  France,  where  I  wish  to  live,  according  to  my  own  ideas  ; 
and  in  Italy — ah  !  what  a  delightful  life  !  I  shall  spend 
my  time  between  Paris  and  Italy. 


1&79-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  181 


1879. 

Thursday,  January  2. — What  I  long  for  is  to  be  able  to  go 
out  alone  !  To  come  and  go  ;  to  sit  down  on  a  bench  in 
the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries,  or,  better  still,  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg ;  to  stand  looking  into  the  artistically  arranged  shop 
windows  ;  to  visit  the  churches  and  the  museums  ;  to  stroll 
through  the  old  streets  of  the  city  in  the  evening. 

Friday,  January  10. — Robert-Fleury  came  to  the  studio 
this  evening.  .  .  . 

If  my  art  does  not  soon  bring  me  fame,  I  shall  kill  my- 
self, and  end  the  whole  matter  at  once.  This  resolution  I 
took  some  months  ago.  When  I  was  in  Russia  I  thought 
of  killing  myself,  but  the  fear  of  a  hereafter  deterred  me.  I 
shall  give  myself  till  thirty,  for  up  to  that  age  one  may  still 
hope  to  acquire  fortune,  or  happiness,  or  glory,  or  what- 
ever it  is  one  desires.  So  then  that  is  settled,  and  if  I  am 
sensible,  I  shall  torment  myself  no  more  either  now  or  in 
the  future. 

Saturday,  January  1 1. — They  think  at  the  studio  that  I  go 
a  great  deal  into  society;  this,  together  with  the  difference  in 
station,  separates  me  from  the  other  pupils,  and  prevents 
my  asking  them  any  favors  as  they  do  among  themselves  ; 
as,  for  instance,  to  accompany  me  to  the  house  of  an  artist 
or  to  a  studio. 

I  worked  faithfully  all  the  week  up  to  ten  o'clock  on 
Saturday  night,  then  I  came  home  and  sat  down  to  cry. 
Heretofore  I  have  always  asked  the  help  of  God  in  my 
troubles,  but  as  He  does  not  seem  to  listen  to  me  at  all,  I 
scarcely  believe  in  Him  any  longer. 

Those  who  have  experienced  this  feeling  will  understand 
all  the  horror  of  it. 


1 8  2  JO  URN  A  L  OF  MA  RIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.          [1679. 

Tuesday,  January. — I  did  not  awake  this  morning  till 
half-past  eleven.  The  prizes  were  awarded  by  the  three 
Professors,  Lefebvre,  Robert-Fleury,  and  Boulanger.  I  did 
not  go  to  the  studio  until  one  o'clock,  to  learn  the  result. 
The  first  words  I  heard  on  entering  were  : 

"  Well,  Mile.  Marie,  come  and  receive  your  medal." 

Wednesday,  January. — I  have  been  dreaming  all  day  of  a 
blue  sea,  white  sails,  a  luminous  sky. — On  entering  the 

studio  this  morning  I  found  P there.     He  goes  to  Rome 

in  a  week,  he  says,  and  while  we  were  talking  he  mentioned 
Katorbinsky  and  others  of  our  friends  ;  and  I — I  felt  my- 
self grow  faint,  before  the  vista  opened  up  to  me  by  his 
words,  of  sculptured  stones,  of  ruins,  of  statues,  of  churches. 
And  the  Campagna, — that  "  desert," — yes,  but  I  adore  that 
desert.  And  there  are  others,  thank  Heaven  !  who  adore  it 
too. 

Sunday,  February  16. — Yesterday  I  received  a  scolding. 

"  I  do  not  understand  how  it  is  that  with  your  talent  you 
find  it  so  difficult  to  paint,"  said  Julian. 

Nor  I  either,  but  I  seem  paralyzed  ;  there  is  no  use  in 
keeping  up  the  struggle  any  longer.  There  is  nothing  left 
me  but  to  die.  My  God,  my  God  !  Is  there,  then,  nothing 
to  be  hoped  for  from  any  one  ?  What  is  detestable  to  think 
of  is,  that  I  have  just  filled  up  the  fire-place  with  wood  with- 
out any  necessity  for  it,  for  I  was  not  at  all  cold,  while  there 
are  miserable  creatures  who  are  at  this  very  moment,  perhaps^ 
crying  with  cold  and  hunger.  It  is  reflections  such  as  these 
that  are  most  effectual  in  drying  the  tears  I  love  to  shed. 
And  yet  I  sometimes  think  that  I  would  as  soon  be  at  the 
lowest  depths  of  misery  as  where  I  am  ;  for  when  one  has 
touched  bottom,  there  is  nothing  further  to  be  feared. 

Tuesday,  February  18. — I  threw  myself  on  my  knees  be- 
side my  bed  just  now  to  implore  God  for  justice,  pity,  or 


I&79-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  183 

pardon  !  If  I  have  not  merited  the  tortures  I  endure,  let 
Him  grant  me  justice  !  If  I  have  committed  evil  deeds,  let 
Him  grant  me  pardon  !  If  He  exists,  and  is  such  as  we 
are  taught  to  believe  Him  to  be,  He  should  be  just,  He 
should  pity,  He  should  pardon.  I  have  only  Him  left  me  ; 
it  is  natural  therefore  that  I  should  seek  Him  and  entreat 
Him  not  to  abandon  me  to  despair  ;  not  to  lead  me  into  sin  ; 
not  to  suffer  me  to  doubt,  to  blaspheme,  to  die. 

Doubtless  my  sufferings  are  no  greater  than  my  sins  ;  I 
am  continually  committing  petty  sins  that  amount  to  a 
frightful  total  in  the  end. 

Just  now  I  spoke  to  my  aunt  harshly,  but  I  could  not 
help  it.  She  came  into  my  room  while  I  was  crying,  with 
my  face  buried  in  my  hands,  and  calling  on  God  to  help 
me.  Ah,  misery  of  miseries  ! 

No  one  must  see  me  weep  ;  it  might  be  thought  my  tears 
were  caused  by  disappointed  love,  and  that — would  make 
me  shed  tears  of  rage. 

Wednesday,  February  19. — I  must  do  something  to  amuse 
myself.  I  say  this  from  the  stupid  habit  we  have  of  repeat- 
ing what  we  read  in  books.  Why  should  I  amuse  myself  ; 
I  still  find  pleasure  in  being  miserable  ;  and  then  I  am  not 
like  other  people,  and  I  detest  doing  the  things  other  people 
do  to  preserve  their  moral  or  their  physical  health,  for  I 
have  no  faith  in  them. 

NICE,  Friday,  February  21. — Well,  I  am  at  Nice  ! 

I  had  a  longing  to  luxuriate  in  pure  air,  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine,  and  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  tne  waves.  Do  you 
love  the  sea  ?  I  love  it  to  distraction  ;  it  is  only  in  Rome 
that  I  forget  it — almost. 

I  came  here  with  Paul.  We  were  taken  for  husband  and 
wife,  which  annoyed  me  exceedingly.  As  our  villa  is  rented, 
we  put  up  at  the  Motel  du  Pare— our  old  Villa 


184  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1879. 

Viva,  that  we  occupied  eight  years  ago.  Eight  years  ! — This 
is  a  pleasure  trip.  We  are  going  to  dine  at  London  House; 
Antoine,  the  mattre-d'hdtel,  came  to  pay  his  respects  to  me, 
as  did  several  of  the  shop  women  also  ;  and  all  the  drivers 
smiled  and  bowed,  and  the  one  we  selected  complimented 
me  on  my  height — he  recognized  me  ;  and  then  another  of- 
fered his  services,  saying  he  had  served  Mme.  Romanoff ; 
and  afterward  I  met  my  friends  of  the  Rue  de  France.  All 
this  is  very  agreeable,  and  these  good  people  have  given  me 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 

The  night  was  beautiful,  and  I  stole  out  alone  and  did 
not  return  to  the  house  until  ten  o'clock.  I  wanted  to 
wander  on  the  sea-shore,  and  sing  to  the  accompaniment  of 
the  waves.  There  was  not  a  living  soul  near,  and  the  night 
was  enchanting,  especially  after  Paris.  Paris  ! 

Saturday,  February  22. — What  a  difference  between  this 
place  and  Paris  !  Here  I  awake  by  myself  ;  the  windows 
remain  open  all  night.  The  room  I  occupy  is  the  one  in 
which  I  used  to  take  drawing-lessons  from  Binsa.  I  see  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  gilding  the  tops  of  the  trees  beside  the 
fountain  in  the  middle  of  the  garden,  as  I  used  to  see  them 
then  every  morning.  My  little  study  has  the  same  paper 
on  the  walls  as  then — the  paper  I  chose  myself.  Probably 
it  is  occupied  by  some  barbarian  of  an  Englishman.  I  was 
able  to  recognize  it  only  by  the  paper,  for  they  have  made 
a  new  corridor  that  confuses  me. 

We  will  dine  at  London  House  while  we  remain  at 
Nice.  One  sees  every  one  there,  especially  during  the 
Carnival. 

Sunday,  February  23. — Yesterday  we  went  to  Monaco. 
This  nest  of  cocottes  is  more  hateful  to  me  than  I  can  find 
words  to  express.  I  remained  in  the  place  only  ten  minutes, 
but  that  was  enough,  as  I  did  not  play. 


1879.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKlRTSi  185 

Monday,  February  24.— I  am  always  happy  when  I  can 
take  a  solitary  walk.  The  sea  was  unspeakably  beautiful 
to-night ;  before  going  to  hear  Patti  I  went  to  listen  to  the 
sound  of  the  waves.  It  had  been  raining,  and  the  air  was 
delightfully  fresh  and  pleasant.  How  soothing  it  is  to  the 
eyes  to  let  them  rest  on  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky  and  of  the 
sea  at  night  ! 

PARIS,  Monday,  March  3.— We  left  Nice  yesterday  at 
noon.  The  weather  was  superb,  and  I  could  not  help  shed- 
ding tears  of  genuine  regret  at  leaving  this  delightful  and 
incomparable  country.  From  my  window  I  could  see  the 
garden,  the  Promenade  des  Anglais,  and  all  the  elegance  of 
Paris.  From  the  corridor  I  could  see  the  Rue  de  France, 
with  its  old  Italian  ruins,  and  its  lanes,  with  their  pictur- 
esque lights  and  shadows.  And  all  the  people  who  knew 
me — "  That  is  Mademoiselle  Marie,"  they  would  say,  when 
I  passed  by. 

I  should  now  like  to  leave  Paris.  My  mind  is  distracted, 
and  I  have  lost  all  hope.  I  no  longer  expect  anything  ;  I  no 
longer  hope  for  anything  ;  I  am  resigned,  with  the  resigna- 
tion of  despair.  I  grope  my  way  darkly  in  search  of  light, 
but  find  none.  I  breathe  a  sigh  that  leaves  my  heart  more 
oppressed  than  before. — Tell  me,  what  would  you  do  in  my 
place? 

Wednesday,  March  5. — To-morrow  I  begin  to  work  again! 
I  will  give  myself  another  year — a  whole  year,  during  which 
I  will  work  harder  than  ever.  What  good  will  it  do  to  des- 
pair ?  Yes,  we  can  say  that  when  we  are  beginning  to  get 
out  of  our  difficulties,  but  not  while  we  are  in  the  midst  of 
them. 

Saturday,  June  21. — For  almost  thirty-six  hours  I  have 
done  nothing  but  cry,  and  last  night  1  went  to  bed  exhausted. 


1 86  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.          [1879. 

As  I  was  about  to  leave  the  studio  at  noon  yesterday, 
Julian  called  to  the  servant  through  the  speaking-tube  ; 
she  put  her  ear  to  the  tube,  and  then  said  to  us  with  some 
emotion: 

"  Ladies,  M.  Julian  desires  me  to  tell  you  that  the  Prince 
Imperial  is  dead." 

I  gave  a  cry  and  sat  down  on  the  coal-box.  Then  as 
every  one  began  to  talk  at  once,  Rosalie  said  : 

"  A  moment's  silence  if  you  please,  ladies.  The  news  is 
official  ;  a  telegram  has  just  been  received.  He  has  been 
killed  by  the  Zulus  ;  this  is  what  M.  Julian  says." 

The  news  had  already  begun  to  spread  ;  so  that  when 
they  brought  me  the  Estafette,  with  the  words  in  capital 
letters,  "  Death  of  the  Prince  Imperial,"  I  cannot  express 
how  much  I  was  shocked. 

And  then,  no  matter  to  what  party  one  may  belong, 
whether  one  be  a  Frenchman  or  a  foreigner,  it  is  impossible 
to  avoid  sharing  in  the  feeling  of  consternation  with  which 
the  news  has  been  everywhere  received. 

One  thing  I  will  say,  however,  which  none  of  the  papers 
has  said,  and  that  is  that  the  English  are  cowards  and  as- 
sassins. There  is  something  mysterious  about  this  death  ; 
there  must  be  both  treachery  and  crime  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
Was  it  natural  that  a  prince  on  whom  all  the  hopes  of  his 
party  were  fixed  should  be  thus  exposed  to  danger, — an  only 
son  ?  I  think  there  is  no  one  so  devoid  of  feeling  as  not  to 
be  moved  at  the  thought  of  this  mother's  anguish.  The 
most  dire  misfortune,  the  crudest  of  losses,  may  still  leave 
some  gleam  of  hope  in  the  future,  some  possibility  of  conso- 
lation. This  leaves  none.  One  may  say  with  truth  that 
this  is  a  grief  like  no  other.  It  was  because  of  her  that  he 
went;  she  gave  him  no  peace;  she«  tormented  him.;  she 
refused  to  allow  him  more  than  five  hundred  francs  a 
month — a  sum  upon  which  he  could  hardly  contrive  to  live. 
The  mother  and  son  parted  on  bad  terms  with  each  other  | 


I879-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  187 

Do  you  perceive  the  horror  of  the  thing  ?  Can  you  un- 
derstand how  this  mother  must  feel  ? 

England  has  treated  the  Bonapartes  shamefully  on  every 
occasion  when  they  were  so  blind  as  to  ask  the  help  of 
that  ignoble  country,  and  it  fills  me  with  hatred  and  rage 
to  think  of  it. 

Sunday,  August  3. — My  dog  Coco  II.  has  disappeared. 
You  cannot  conceive  what  a  grief  this  is  to  me. 

Monday,  August  4. — I  could  not  sleep  last  night  thinking 
of  my  poor  little  dog.  I  even  condescended  to  shed  a  few 
tears  for  him,  after  which  I  prayed  to  God  that  I  might  find 
him  again.  I  have  a  special  prayer  that  I  repeat  to  myself 
whenever  I  want  to  ask  for  anything.  I  cannot  remember 
ever  to  have  said  it  without  receiving  some  consolation. 

This  morning  they  wakened  me  to  give  me  my  dog, 
which  had  been  found,  and  the  ungrateful  creature  was  so 
hungry  that  he  showed  scarcely  any  joy  at  seeing  me. 

Mamma  exclaims  that  it  is  a  miracle  to  have  found  him, 
as  we  have  already  lost  four  dogs  and  never  found  any  of 
them  before.  She  would  not  be  so  surprised,  though,  if  I 
were  to  tell  her  of  my  prayer.  I  confide  it  only  to  my  diary, 
however,  and  I  am  not  quite  satisfied  with  myself  in  doing 
even  this.  There  are  secret  thoughts  and  prayers  which  to 
repeat  aloud  makes  one  seem  foolish  or  ridiculous. 

Saturday,  August  9. — Shall  I  go  or  stay  ?  The  trunks  are 
already  packed.  My  physician  does  not  appear  to  believe  in 
the  efficacy  of  the  waters  of  Mont-Dore.  No  matter,  I 
shall  have  rest  there.  And  when  I  come  back  I  shall  lead 
a  life  of  incredible  activity.  1  will  paint  while  there  is  day- 
light, and  model  in  the  evening. 

Wednesday,  August  13.— At  one  o'clock  yesterday  we 
arrived  at  Dieppe. 


1 88  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1879. 

Are  all  seaport  towns  alike  ?  I  have  been  at  Ostend,  at 
Calais,  at  Dover,  and  now  I  am  at  Dieppe.  They  all  smell 
of  tar,  of  boats,  of  ropes,  and  of  tarpaulin.  It  is  windy  ; 
one  is  exposed  to  the  weather  on  all  sides,  and  one  feels 
miserable.  It  is  like  being  sea-sick.  How  different  from 
the  Mediterranean  !  There  one  can  breathe  freely  and  there 
is  something  to  admire  ;  one  is  comfortable,  and  there  are 
none  of  the  vile  smells  that  are  here.  I  would  prefer  a 
little  green  nest  like  Soden  or  Schlangenbad,  or  what  I 
imagine  Mont-Dore  to  be,  to  this  place. 

I  have  come  here  to  breathe  good  air,  ah, — well  !  doubt- 
less outside  the  city  and  the  port  the  air 'is  better.  None  of 
these  Northern  sea-ports  please  me.  From  none  of  the 
hotels,  below  the  third  story,  is  a  view  of  the  sea  to  be  had. 

0  Nice  !     O  San  Remo  !     O  Naples  !     O  Sorrento  !    you 
are  not  unmeaning  names  ;  your  beauties  have  not  been  ex- 
aggerated, nor  profaned  by  guide-books  !     You  are  indeed 
beautiful  and  delightful  cities  ! 

Saturday,  August  16. — We  laugh  a  good  deal,  though  I 
find  this  place  very  tiresome  !  but  it  is  in  my  nature  to 
laugh;  it  is  something  altogether  independent  of  the  humor 

1  am  in.          • 

In  former  times,  when  I  was  at  any  watering-place  I  took 
pleasure  in  watching  the  passers-by  ;  it  amused  me. 

I  have  grown  completely  indifferent  to  all  that  now  ;  it  is 
all  the  same  to  me  whether  men  or  dogs  be  around  me. 
Painting  and  music  are  still  what  I  most  enjoy.  I  ex- 
pected to  play  a  very  different  part  in  the  world  from  the 
one  I  am  playing  ;  and  since  it  is  not  what  I  thought  it 
would  be,  what  it  is  matters  little. 

Tuesday ',  August  19. — I  took  my  first  sea-bath  to-day,  and 
the  whole  thing  disgusted  me  so  much  that  I  would  have 
been  glad  of  an  excuse  to  cry.  I  would  rather  wear  the 


1879.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  .189 

dress  of  a  fisher-girl  than  clothes  that  look  common  ;  my 
disposition  is,  besides,  an  unfortunate  one.  I  crave  an  ex- 
quisite harmony  in  all  the  details  of  life  ;  very  often  things 
that  are  thought  by  others  beautiful  or  elegant  shock  me 
by  their  lack  of  artistic  grace.  I  would  like  my  mother  to 
be  elegant  or  spirituelle,  or  at  least  dignified  and  majestic. 
Life  is  a  wretched  affair,  after  all.  In  truth,  it  is  not  right 
that  people  should  be  made  to  suffer  thus. 

These  are  trifles,  you  say  ?  Everything  is  relative,  and 
if  a  pin  wounds  you  as  sharply  as  a  knife,  what  have  the 
sages  to  say  in  the  matter  ? 

Wednesday,  August  20. — I  think  I  can  never  experience 
any  feeling  into  which  ambition  does  not  enter,  i  despise 
insignificant  people. 

Friday,  August  29. — Fatalism  is  the  religion  of  the  lazy 
and  the  desperate.  I  am  desperate,  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  am  entirely  indifferent  to  life.  I  would  not  make 
use  of  this  hackneyed  phrase,  if  this  feeling  were  a  tran- 
sitory one  ;  but  I  am  so  always,  even  when  I  am  most 
happy.  I  have  a  contempt  for  death  ;  if  there  is  nothing 
beyond — the  thing  is  quite  simple  ;  and  if  there  is,  I  com- 
mend myself  to  God.  But  I  do  not  think  that  in  any  case 
I  shall  be  in  Paradise  ;  the  unhappiness  I  suffer  here  will 
find  a  continuance  there  ;  I  am  doomed  to  it. 

Monday,  September  i.— I  hope  you  have  noticed  the  great 
change  that  has  been  taking  place  in  me  for  some  time  past. 
1  have  become  serious  and  sensible  ;  and  then,  too,  1  can 
better  appreciate  certain  ideas  now  than  formerly.  Many 
things  in  regard  to  which  I  had  no  settled  convictions  I  now 
begin  to  understand.  I  can  see,  for  instance,  how  one  may 
cherish  as  profound  a  sentiment  of  devotion  to  an  idea,  and 
entertain  for  it  a  passion  as  strong,  as  for  an  individual. 


19°  •         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1879. 

Devotion  to  a  prince,  or  to  a  dynasty,  is  a  sentiment  that 
might  arouse  my  enthusiasm,  that  might  move  me  to  tears, 
and  even  impel  me  to  action  under  the  influence  of  some 
powerful  emotion,  but  there  is  a  secret  feeling  within  me 
that  makes  me  distrust  these  fluctuating  emotions.  When- 
ever I  consider,  in  regard  to  great  men,  that  they  have  been 
the  slaves  of  other  men,  all  my  admiration  for  them  vanishes. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  because  of  a  foolish  vanity  on  my  part, 
but  I  look  upon  all  these  servants  as  little  less  than  contemp- 
tible, and- 1  am  only  truly  a  royalist  when  I  put  myself  in 
the  place  of  the  king. 

As  far  as  I  myself  am  concerned,  I  might  be  willing  to 
bow  the  head  before  a  king,  but  I  could  neither  love  nor 
esteem  a  man  who  would  do  so. 

I  might  accept  a  constitutional  monarchy  like  that  of 
England  or  of  Italy,  but  even  in  those  there  is  much  to  ob- 
ject to.  It  disgusts  me  to  see  those  salutes  to  the  royal 
family  ;  they  are  a  useless  humiliation.  Where  the  ruler  is 
in  sympathy  with  the  people,  as  was  the  case  with  Victor 
Emmanuel,  who  was  the  exponent  and  advocate  of  a  great 
idea,  or  with  Queen  Margaret,  who  is  both  amiable  and 
good,  this  may  be  tolerated  ;  but  it  is  much  better  to  have 
a  ruler  who  is  chosen  by  the  people,  and  who,  as  a  conse- 
quence, will  always  be  in  sympathy  with  them. 

The  old  order  of  things  is  the  negation  of  progress  and 
of  intelligence. 

PARIS,  Wednesday,  September  17. — To-day,  Wednesday, 
which  is  a  lucky  day  of  the  week  for  me,  and  the  iyth,  a 
lucky  day  of  the  month,  I  made  my  arrangements  to  begin 
modeling. 

Wednesday,  October  i. — The  papers  have  come,  and  I  have 
just  finished  reading  the  two  hundred  pages  that  make  the 
first  number  of  Mme.  Adam's  review.  This  disturbed  me 


i»79-]         JOL'KXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEl-F.  191 

a  little,  and  at  four  o'clock  I  left  the  studio  to  go  for  a 
walk  in  the  Bois.  I  wore  a  new  hat  which  attracted  a  good 
deal  of  attention.  Now,  however,  I  have  become  indiffer- 
ent to  such  things.  Mme.  Adam  has  reason  to  be  very 
happy,  I  think. 

Thursday,  October  30. — France  is  a  delightful  country  and 
an  amusing  one  ;  the  country  of  riots,  of  revolutions,  of  fash- 
ion, of  wit,  of  grace,  of  elegance — of  everything,  in  a  word, 
that  gives  animation,  charm,  and  variety  to  life.  But  we 
must  look  for  neither  a  stable  government,  a  virtuous  man — 
virtuous,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  antique  sense  of  the  word — a 
marriage  based  upon  love,  or  true  art.  The  French  paint- 
ers  are  very  good,  but,  with  the  exception  of  Gericault,  and 
at  present  of  Bastien-Lepage,  the  divine  spark  is  wanting. 
And  never,  never,  never,  will  France  produce  works  equal 
to  those  which  England  and  Holland  have  produced,  in  a 
certain  style. 

France  is  a  delightful  country,  where  pleasure  and  gal- 
lantry are  concerned,  but  how  about  other  things?  It  is 
always  this,  however  ;  and  other  countries,  with  all  their 
respectable  and  solid  qualities,  are  very  often  dull.  And 
then,  if  I  complain  of  France,  it  is  because  I  am  unmarried. 
France  for  young  girls  is  an  infamous  country — the  word  is 
not  too  strong  a  one.  Trade,  traffic,  speculation,  are  hon- 
orable words  in  their  proper  place,  but  applied  to  marriage 
they  are  infamous  ;  yet  they  are  the  only  words  that  can 
justly  be  applied  to  French  marriages. 

Afonday,  November  10. — I  went  to  church  yesterday.  I 
go  occasionally,  so  that  I  may  not  be  thought  a  nihilist. 

Friday,  November  14. — If  I  have  written  nothing  here  for 
some  days  past,  it  is  because  I  have  had  nothing  interesting 
to  say. 


I92  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1879. 

Thus  far,  I  have  always  been  charitably  disposed  toward 
my  fellow-beings  ;  I  have  never  spoken  ill  of  others,  nor 
repeated  the  evil  I  have  heard  spoken  of  them  ;  I  have  al- 
ways defended  any  one  who  was  slandered  in  my  presence, 
no  matter  who  it  might  be,  in  the  selfish  expectation  that 
others  would  do  as  much  forme  in  return  ;  I  never  seriously 
entertained  the  idea  of  injuring  any  one,  and  if  I  have  de- 
sired fortune  or  power,  it  has  not  been  from  selfish  motives, 
but  rather  with  the  purpose  of  performing  such  acts  of  gen- 
erosity, of  goodness,  of  charity,  as  it  now  astonishes  me  to 
think  of — although  in  regard  to  this  last  particular,  I  have 
not  been  very  successful  ;  I  shall  always  continue  to  give 
twenty  sous  to  a  beggar  in  the  street,  because  such  people 
bring  tears  to  my  eyes — but  I  really  fear  now  that  I  am 
growing  wicked. 

And  yet  it  would  be  a  noble  thing  to  remain  good,  em- 
bittered and  unhappy  as  I  am.  It  would  be  amusing,  how- 
ever, to  be  wicked — to  injure  others,  to  speak  evil  of  them — 
since  it  is  all  the  same  to  God,  and  He  takes  cognizance  of 
nothing.  Beside,  it  is  very  evident  that  God  is  not  what 
we  imagine  Him  to  be.  God  is,  perhaps,  nature ;  and  all 
the  events  of  life  are  directed  by  chance,  which  sometimes 
brings  about  those  strange  coincidences  and  events  that 
make  us  believe  there  is  a  Providence.  As  to  our  prayers 
to  God,  our  communion  with  Him,  our  faith  in  Him,  I  have 
learned  to  my  cost  that  there  is  nothing  in  them. 

To  feel  within  one's-self  the  power  to  move  heaven  and 
earth  and  to  be  nothing  !  I  do  not  proclaim  this  thought 
aloud,  but  the  anguish  of  it  may  be  read  upon  my  counten- 
ance. People  think  such  thoughts  are  of  no  consequence 
so  long  as  one  does  not  utter  them  aloud,  but  feelings  like 
these  always  come  to  the  surface. 

Wednesday,  November  19. — Robert-Fleury  came  to  see  me 
this  evening,  and,  besides  the  profit  I  derived  from  the 


I879-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHXlRTSEFF.  193 

good  advice  he  gave  me,  we  spent  a  pleasant  evening  to- 
gether in  my  studio  beside  the  samovar  ;  he  explained  very 
clearly  to  me  how  it  was  necessary  to  arrange  the  light. 
Fleury  neither  receives  pay  nor  has  he  any  selfish  interest 
in  the  matter ;  besides,  he  is  a  person  whose  words  are  to 
be  relied  upon,  and  he  repeated  to  me  this  evening  what  he 
told  Mme.  Breslau — that  her  daughter  and  myself  are  the 
only  pupils  in  the  studio  who  have  exceptional  talent  for 
drawing.  The  others  are  worth  nothing.  He  passed  them 
all  in  review,  and  I  was  amused  to  see  how  unceremoni- 
ously he  treated  their  pretensions. 

In  short,  he  has  taken  me  absolutely  under  his  wing.  So 
to  compensate  him  in  some  way  for  this,  I  have  given  him 
an  order  for  a  portrait  of  myself,  small  size,  and  this  has 
already  begun  to  detract  from  my  pleasure  in  his  society, 
on  account  of  the  expense. 

Saturday,  November  21. — As  I  expressed  a  great  deal  of 
admiration  to-day  for  a  sketch  he  had  made  for  the  ceiling 
of  the  Luxembourg,  he  (Tony)  offered  it  to  me  in  the  most 
amiable  manner  possible,  saying  it  gave  him  pleasure  to 
present  it  to  one  who  knew  as  much  about  art  as  I  did,  and 
who  could  appreciate  it  so  well. 

"  But  there  must  be  a  great  many,"  I  said,  "  who  appre- 
ciate your  painting." 

"No,  no,  it  is  not  the  same  thing,  it  is  not  the  same 
thing,"  he  replied. 

I  am  already  more  at  my  ease  with  him,  and  am  scarcely 
at  all  afraid  of  him  now.  After  seeing  him  for  two  whole 
years  at  the  studio,  once  or  twice  every  week,  it  seems  very 
odd  to  chat  with  him  and  have  him  help  me  on  with  my 
pelisse.  A  little  more  and  we  shall  be  good  friends.  If  it 
were  not  for  the  portrait,  I  should  be  well  contented,  for 
my  master  is  as  amiable  with  me  as  possible. 


194  JOURNAL  OF  MAklE  SAStiKlRTSEFF.          [1879. 

Monday,  No-vember  23. — We  went  to-day  to  invite  Julian 
to  dine  with  us,  but  he  made  a  thousand  excuses,  saying 
that,  if  he  accepted  the  invitation,  it  would  take  away  ail 
his  authority  over  me,  and  that  then  there  would  be  no 
means  of  getting  on,  particularly  as  the  least  mark  of  com- 
plaisance toward  me  on  his  part  was  regarded  as  favoritism. 
They  would  say  I  could  do  as  I  liked  at  the  studio  because 
he  dined  with  us,  because  I  was  rich,  etc.  The  good  man 
is  right. 

Tuesday,  November  24. — The  studio  at  No.  37  has  been 
taken  and  is  almost  arranged. 

I  spent  the  whole  day  there  ;  it  is  a  very  large  room, 
with  gray  walls.  I  sent  there  two  rather  shabby  Gobelins 
which  conceal  the  side  of  the  wall  furthest  from  the  entrance, 
a  Persian  carpet,  some  Chinese  matting,  a  large  square 
Algerian  seat,  a  table  for  modeling,  a  number  of  pieces  of 
stuff,  and  some  satinette  draperies,  of  a  warm,  undecided 
color. 

I  also  sent  a  number  of  casts — the  Venus  of  Milo,  the 
Venus  of  Medicis,  and  the  Venus  of  Nimes  ;  the  Apollo,  the 
Neapolitan  Faun,  an  Scorch/,  some  bas-reliefs,  a  portman- 
teau, an  urn,  a  looking-glass  that  cost  me  four  francs 
twenty-five  centimes,  a  clock  that  cost  thirty-two  francs,  a 
chair,  a  stove,  an  oak  chest  of  drawers,  of  which  the  upper 
part  serves  as. a  color  box,  a  tray  with  everything  necessary 
to  make  tea,  an  inkstand  and  some  pens,  a  pail,  a  jug,  and  a 
number  of  canvases,  caricatures,  studies,  and  sketches. 

To-morrow  I  shall  unpack  some  drawings — but  I  fear  that 
they  will  make  my  paintings  appear  still  worse  than  they 
are — an  arm  and  a  leg,  natural  size,  of  an  e"corche,  a  lay- 
figure,  and  a  box  of  carpenter's  tools  ;  the  Antinoiis  is  still 
to  be  sent. 

Wednesday,  December  30. — I  think  that  I  am  going  to  be 


l88o.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  kASHKIRTSEFF.  195 

ill.  I  am  so  weak  that  I  cry  without  any  cause.  On  leav- 
ing the  studio  to-day  I  went  to  the  Magasin  du  Louvre. 
It  would  take  a  Zola  to  describe  this  excited,  busy,  disgust- 
ingcrowd,  running,  pushing,  with  heads  thrust  forward,  and 
eager  eyes.  I  felt  ready  to  faint  from  heat  and  weakness. 

What  a  melancholy  ending  to  the  year  !  I  think  I  shall 
go  to  bed  at  eleven  and  sleep  while  waiting  for  midnight — 
to  have  my  fortune  told. 


I880. 

Thursday,  January  i. — I  went  to  the  studio  this  morning ; 
so  that  by  working  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  I  may  work 
the  whole  year  through.  We  made  some  visits  afterward, 
and  then  went  to  the  Bois. 

Saturday,  January  3. — I  cough  continually  !  but  for  a 
wonder,  far  from  making  me  look  ugly,  this  gives  me  an  air 
of  languor  that  is  very  becoming. 

Monday,  January  5. — Well,  things  are  going  badly. 

I  have  begun  to  work  again,  but  as  I  did  not  take  a  com- 
plete rest,  I  feel  a  languor  and  a  lack  of  strength  such  as.  I 
never  felt  before.  And  the  Salon  so  near  !  I  have  talked 
it  all  over  with  Julian,  and  we  are  both  agreed  that  1  am 
not  ready. 

Let  me  see  :  I  have  been  working  for  two  years  and  four 
months,  without  deducting  time  lost,  or  spent  in  traveling — 
little  enough,  yet  after  all  it  is  a  good  deal.  I  have  not 
worked  hard  enough,  I  have  lost  time  ;  I  have  relaxed  my 
efforts,  I— in  a  word,  I  am  not  ready.  "The  constant  prick- 
ing of  a  pin  would  drive  one  mad,"  Edmond  has  said, 
'•  but  a  blow  from  a  club,  provided  it  were  not  given  in  a 
vital  part,  might  be  courageously  borne."  It  is  true  ;  the 


*96  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKiRTSkFF.          [1880. 

same  eternal  comparison — Breslau.  She  began  in  June, 
1875,  which  gives  her  four  years  and  a  half,  with  two  years 
at  Zurich  or  Munich  ;  total,  six  years  and  a  half,  without 
deducting  either  time  spent  in  travel  or  time  lost  from  study, 
as  in  my  case.  She  had  been  painting  a  little  more  than 
two  years  when  she  exhibited.  I  have  been  painting  a  year 
and  four  months,  and  I  cannot  exhibit  with  as  much  credit 
as  she  can. 

As  far  as  I  myself  am  concerned,  this  would  not  matter  ; 
I  could  wait.  I  am  courageous  ;  if  I  were  told  I  had  to 
wait  a  year,  I  could  answer  from  my  heart,  "  Very  well." 
But  the  public,  and  my  family — they  would  believe  in  me 
no  longer.  I  might  send  a  picture,  but  what  Julian  desires 
is  that  I  should  paint  a  portrait,  and  this  I  could  do  only 
indifferently  well.  See  what  it  is  to  be  of  importance  ; 
there  are  pupils  in  the  studio  who  have  exhibited,  who  can- 
not paint  a  fifth  as  well  as  I,  and  no  one  has  said  anything 
about  it.  But  when  it  'is  I  who  am  in  question — "Why  do 
it  ?  "  they  say.  "  You  do  not  want  to  teach,  nor  to  be  paid 
fifty  or  a  hundred  francs  for  a  picture ;  what  you  want  is 
fame.  To  exhibit  such  a  thing  as  the  others  might  very 
well  do,  would  be  unworthy  of  you." 

This  is  my  own  opinion,  too  ;  but  the  public  and  my 
family,  and  our  friends  and  relations  in  Russia,  what  will 
they  say  ? 

Saturday,  January  17. — The  doctorwould  haveme  believe 
that  my  cough  is  a  purely  nervous  one,  and  it  may  be  so, 
for  I  have  not  taken  cold  ;  neither  my  throat  nor  my  chest 
hurts  me.  I  simply  experience  a  difficulty  in  breathing, 
and  I  feel  a  pain  in  the  right  side.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I 
came  home  at  eleven,  and,  all  the  time  wishing  that  I  might 
fall  suddenly  ill  so  as  not  to  have  to  go  to  the  ball,  dressed 
myself  for  it.  I  looked  beautiful. 


tSSo.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  197 

Tuesday,  January  20.— When  I  came  home  from  the 

studio  to-day  I  found  that  Mme.  G had  been  here, 

expecting  to  find  me  in  my  room,  and  that  she  was  furious 
because  I  do  not  take  care  of  myself  just  as  if  I  were  an 
old  woman.  And  then,  the  tickets  we  were  promised  for 
to-morrow  have  been  given  to  Mme.  de  Rothschild. 

Oh,  not  to  have  to  ask  for  tickets  !     To  be  independent ! 

Saturday,  January  31. — I  went  to-night  to  a  concert  and 
ball,  given  for  the  benefit  of  the  suffers  by  the  inundations 
in  Murcia,  at  the  Continental  Hotel,  under  the  patronage 
of  Queen  Isabella,  who,  after  listening  to  the  concert, 
descended  to  the  ball-room,  where  she  remained  an  hour. 

I  am  not  very  fond  of  dancing,  and  to  whirl  around  in 
the  arms  of  a  man  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be  very  amusing. 
On  the  whole,  though,  it  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me, 
for  I  could  never  understand  the  feeling  of  the  Italians 
with  respect  to  the  waltz. 

When  I  dance  I  think  of  nothing  but  the  persons  who 
are  observing  me. 

I  should  like  to  do  every  day  as  I  have  done  to-day  :  to 
work  from  eight  until  noon ;  and  from  two  until  five ;  at 
five  to  have  the  lamp  brought  in  and  draw  till  half-past 
seven. 

At  half-past  seven  to  dress;  to  dine  at  eight,  read  until 
eleven,  and  then  go  to  bed. 

To  work  from  two  till  half-past  seven,  however,  without 
stopping,  is  a  little  fatiguing. 

For  this  year's  Salon  I  have  thought  of  this  :  A  woman 
seated  at  a  table  reading,  her  elbow  resting  on  the  table, 
and  her  chin  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  while  the  light  falls  on 
her  beautiful  blonde  hair.  Title— The  Divorce  Question, 
by  Dumas.  This  book  has  just  appeared,  and  the  subject 
is  one  that  is  agitating  the  whole  world.  The  other  picture 
is  simply  Dina  in  a  white  crepe-de-chine,  seated  in  a  large 


I98  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

antique  easy-chair,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  her  fingers 
loosely  interlaced.  The  attitude  is  so  easy  and  graceful 
that  I  hastened  to  make  a  sketch  of  her  one  evening  she 
had  seated  herself  thus  by  chance,  while  I  was  trying  to 
pose  her.  It  is  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Mme.  Recamier, 
and  in  order  that  the  waist  may  not  look  too  immodest  I 
shall  add  a  colored,  sash. 

To-day,  I  float  in  air,  I  feel  myself  a  superior  being, — 
great,  happy,  capable  of  all  things.  I  have  faith  in  my 
future. 

Monday,  February  16. — We  went  to  the  Theatre  Fran- 
£ais  to-night  to  see  the  first  representation  of  "  Daniel 
Rochat,"  by  Sardou.  It  was  a  really  important  event. 
We  had  an  excellent  box  containing  six  seats.  There  was 
a  splendid  house  ;  every  one  of  any  importance,  socially  or 
politically,  being  there. 

As  to  the  play  itself  I  must  see  it  again.  I  thought  it 
in  some  parts  diffuse  and  tiresome  ;  but  the  audience 
shouted,  applauded,  and  hissed  so  much,  some  approving, 
others  condemning,  that  I  could  scarcely  hear  half  of  the 
piece.  The  hero  is  a  great  orator, — a  sort  of  atheistic 
Gambetta.  The  heroine  is  a  young  girl, — an  Anglo-Amer- 
ican Protestant,  extremely  liberal  in  her  views,  and  a  repub- 
lican, but  a  believer. 

You  can  imagine  what  might  be  made  out  of  such  ma- 
terials at  the  present  time. 

Wednesday,  March  3. — I  must  give  up  going  out  in  the 
evening  for  the  present,  so  that  I  may  be  able  to  rise  re- 
freshed in  the  morning  and  begin  my  work  at  eight  o'clock. 

I  have  only  sixteen  days  left  in  which  to  complete  my 
picture. 

Friday }  March    12. — If   mamma  goes    away  to-morrow, 


1880.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  199 

Dina  will  accompany  her  ;  there  are  only  seven  days  left 
now,  and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  find  a  model  ;  even  if  I 
succeed  in  finding  one  to-morrow,  there  will  be  only  six 
days,  then,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  finish  my  picture 
in  that  time.  I  must  therefore  give  up  the  hope  of  exhibit- 
ing this  year,  and  I  will  not  conceal  from  you  the  fact  that 
I  have  shed  tears  of  rage,  not  only  on  account  of  that,  but 
also  at  the  thought  that  nothing  succeeds  with  me.  I  con- 
ceive an  idea  for  a  picture — a  sensational  subject  that 
would  produce  an  effect,  whatever  shortcomings  there 
might  be  in  the  execution,  and  give  me  in  a  day  the  reputa- 
tion I  could  scarcely  hope  to  acquire  otherwise  in  a  year — 
and  now  there  is  an  end  to  everything.  The  labor  of  so 
many  days  is  lost,  and  lost  without  hope  of  a  return.  This 
is  what  may  be  called  a  misfortune.  Think  of  me  as  you 
will,  but  while  Paul's  romantic  sorrows  left  me  unmoved, 
this  sorrow  of  my  own  exasperates  me  and  plunges  me  into 
despair.  Yet  there  is  something  more  in  this  feeling  than 
selfishness,  though  what  it  is  I  cannot  explain.  And  even 
if  there  were  nothing  in  it  but  selfishness,  I  am  unhappy 
enough,  and  forlorn  enough,  to  excuse  my  being  selfish. 

Friday,  March  19. — At  a  quarter-past  twelve  Tony  arrived. 
Why  had  I  not  begun  sooner?  he  asked;  the  picture  was 
charming,  enchanting,  he  declared:  what  a  pity  it  was  that 
it  was  not  finished !  On  the  whole,  he  consoled  me,  but  he 
said  that  I  must  ask  for  more  time. 

"You  rnight  send  it  as  it  is,"  he  added,  "but  it  would 
not  be  worthy  of  you;  this  is  my  sincere  opinion;  ask  for 
more  time,  and  you  will  produce  something  really  good." 

Then  he  turned  up  his  sleeves,  took  the  palette  and 
brush,  and  dashed  in  a  stroke  here  and  there  to  show  whore 
more  light  was  wanted.  But  I  will  retouch  it  all— if  tlu-y 
grant  me  the  time.  He  stayed  more  than  two  hours.  He  is 
a  charming  fellow;  he  entertained  me  greatly,  and  I  was  in 


200  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

such  good-humor  that  it  mattered  little  to  me  what  became 
of  the  picture.  Those  dashes  of  the  brush  were  in  fact  an 
excellent  lesson. 

I  had  already  recovered  my  spirits  even  before  I  knew 
the  result  of  mamma's  efforts  with  Gavini,  who  had  written 
to  Turquet.  Well,  I  am  to  receive  my  six  days'  grace. 
I  do  not  know  precisely  whom  to  thank  for  this,  but  we 
went  to  the  opera  with  the  Gavinis  to-night,  and  I  thanked 
the  elder  Gavini.  It  is  to  him,  I  think,  that  I  owe  it.  I 
was  radiant,  triumphant,  happy. 

Monday,  March  22. — Tony  is  surprised  to  see  how  much 
I  have  accomplished  in  so  short  a  time.  All  the  same,  with 
the  exception  of  the  background,  the  hair,  and  the  flesh, 
the  painting  has  a  muddy  look.  There  is  no  freshness 
about  it.  I  might  have  done  better.  This  is  Tony's  opin- 
ion also;  he  is  satisfied  with  it,  however,  and  says  that,  if 
there  were  any  possibility  of  its  being  refused  at  the  Salon, 
he  would  be  the  first  to  tell  me  not  to  send  it.  He  says  he 
is  surprised  to  see  how  much  I  have  accomplished.  "It  is 
well  conceived,  well  composed,  and  well  executed;  it  is  full 
of  harmony,  of  charm,  of  grace." 

Ah,  yes,  but  I  am  dissatisfied  with  the  flesh.  And  to 
think  they  will  say  this  is  my  manner!  It  is  like  parch- 
ment! I  shall  be  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  glaze!  I  who 
adore  freshness  and  simplicity  in  painting,  who  have  always 
made  it  my  aim  to  secure  the  effect  at  the  first  stroke!  I 
can  tell  you  that  it  costs  me  not  a  little  to  exhibit  a  thing 
the  execution  of  which  falls  so  far  short  of  what  I  should 
like  it  to  be — a  thing  so  different  from  my  ordinary  work. 
It  is  true  that  I  have  never  done  anything  that  has  altogether 
pleased  me,  but  this  is  muddy,  it  is  a  daub.  Tony  says 
that  Breslau  shows  the  influence  of  Bastien-Lepage  in  her 
painting  this  year.  She  shows  his  influence  as  I  show  hers. 

Tony  is  as  good  as  he  can  be.     And  to  say  that  I  might 


i8So.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSE1-1-.  20 1 

have  done  better!  Miserable  self-depreciation;  miserable 
want  of  self-confidence!  If  I  had  not  begun  to  hesitate 
and  to  say  to  myself,  "To  be,  or  not  to  be!"— But  let  me 
not  commit  the  folly  of  grieving  for  a  thing  that  is  past. 

I  cannot  tell  why  my  mind  should  dwell  on  Italy  to- 
night. This  is  a  subject  that  awakens  torturing  thoughts 
within  me,  and  one  that  I  seek  to  avoid  thinking  of  as  far 
as  possible.  I  have  given  up  reading  Roman  history;  it 
excited  my  imagination  too  much,  and  I  have  fallen  back 
on  the  French  Revolution  and  the  history  of  Greece.  But 
when  I  think  of  the  Italian  sunshine,  the  Italian  air,— when 
I  think  of  Rome,  I  grow  wild! 

Even  Naples — Ah,  Naples  by  moonlight!  And  what  is 
curious  is  that  there  is  no  man  in  the  case.  When  I  think 
that  I  might  go  there  if  I  chose,  I  am  almost  mad. 

Thursday,  March  25. — I  have  given  the  final  touches  to 
my  picture:  there  is  nothing  now  to  be  done  to  it,  unless  to 
do  it  all  over  again.  It  is  finished,  as  far  as  so  wretched  a 
thing  can  be  finished. 

This  is  my  debut;  nay  first  independent  public  act.  At 
last  it  is  accomplished;  my  number  is  9091,  "Mademoiselle 
Marie-Constantin  Russ."  I  hope  it  will  be  accepted;  I 
will  send  the  number  to  Tony. 

Wednesday,  April  7. — I  must  not  forget  to  say  that  Julian 
announced  to  me  this  morning  that  my  picture  has  been 
accepted.  Curiously  enough,  I  experienced  no  feeling  of 
satisfaction  at  the  news.  Mamma's  delight  irritates  me; 
tli is  kind  of  a  success  is  unworthy  of  me. 

We  spent  the  evening  at  Mme.  P 's, — amiable  people, 

but  surrounded  by  a  curious  set;  the  dresses  were  of  another 
century;  no  one  of  any  note  was  there:  I  was  sleepy  and 
cross.  And  poor  mamma  left  her  seat  to  present  to  me  the 
Mexican,  or  the  Chilian,  "who  laughs."  He  makes  fright- 


202  JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

ful  grimaces  which  give  him  a  habitually  sneering  expres- 
sion. It  is  a  nervous  affection,  and  along  with  it  he  has  a 
round,  smooth  face!  He  has  twenty-seven  millions,  and 
mamma  has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  I  might  marry  this 
man — it  would  be  almost  as  if  I  were  to  marry  a  man  with- 
out a  nose!  Horrible!  I  might  marry  an  old  man,  an 
ugly  man — they  are  all  alike  to  me — but  a  monster,  never! 
Of  what  use  would  his  millions  be  to  me  with  this  laughing- 
stock attached  to  them.  There  were  several  people  there 
we  knew,,  but  it  was  enough  to  put  one  to  sleep — amateurs 
who  made  faces  and  showed  their  teeth  while  they  sang,  a 
violinist  who  could  not  be  heard,  and  a  handsome  man  who, 
after  sweeping  his  audience  with  a  triumphant  glance,  gave 
us  Schubert's  "Serenade,"  with  his  hand  resting  on  the  piano. 
But  for  that  matter  I  cannot  understand  how  a  gentleman 
can  thus  make  an  exhibition  of  himself  in  public. 

The  women,  their  heads  dressed  with  that  white  powder 
that  gives  the  hair  so  dirty  an  appearance,  looked  as  if  they 
had  just  been  stuffing  mattresses  or  threshing  straw.  How 
foolish,  how  disgusting  a  practice  it  is! 

Thursday,  April  29. — We  dine  with  the  Simonides  this 
evening.  Everything  about  their  menage  is  curious  (I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  wife  at  Julian's);  the  husband 
is  young  and  handsome,  the  wife  is  past  her  thirty-fifth  year, 
though  still  beautiful ;  they  are  very  much  attached  to  each 
other.  They  live  in  retirement,  seeing  no  one  with  the  ex- 
ception, of  a  few  artists,  and«produce  the  most  extraordinary 
drawings  and  paintings,  something  after  the  style  of  the 
Renaissance,  and  on  subjects  surprising  by  their  naivete! 
"The  Death  of  Beatrice,"  "The  Death  of  Laura"  (the  woman 
who  concealed  her  lover's  head  in  a  flower-pot,  from  which 
flowers  sprouted  afterward),  and  all  in  the  manner  of  cent- 
uries ago.  Madame  wrears  costumes  of  the  time  of  Boccaccio ; 
to  night  she  wore  a  soft  Japanese  crepe,  with  long,  narrow 


I88o.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSF.FF.  203 

sleeves,  such  as  the  Virgin  is  represented  wearing,  fastened 
behind,  and  a  plain  skirt  hanging  in  straight  folds ;  a  gir- 
dle of  antique  galloon,  which  made  her  look  rather  short- 
waisted ;  a  bouquet  of  lilies  of  the  valley  in  the  corsage, 
pearls  around  her  neck,  and  earrings  and  bracelets  of  gold 
of  antique  workmanship.  With  her  pale  complexion,  her 
black  wavy  hair,  and  her  gazelle-like  eyes,  she  looked  like 
a  fantastic  apparition.  If  she  only  had  the  sense  to  dress 
her  hair  simply,  instead  of  tumbling  it  up  and  making  her 
head  look  like  a  fright,  she  would  be  very  striking. 

Friday,  April  30. — My  little  American  friend,  whose 
name  is  Alice  Brisbane,  came  at  ten,  and  we  left  the  house 
together.  I  had  set  my  mind  on  going  alone  or  with  but  a 
single  companion  to  see  how  my  picture  was  hung.  I  went 
to  the  Salon,  then,  very  nervous,  and  imagining  the  worst 
tha,t  could  possibly  happen,  so  that  I  might  not  be  disap- 
pointed. None  of  my  forebodings  were  realized,  however, 
for  my  picture  was  not  yet  hung. 

As  for  Bastien-Lepage,  his  picture  produces  on  the  be- 
holder, at  the  first  glance,  the  effect  of  space — of  the  open 
air.  Jeanne  d'Arc — the  real  Jeanne  d'Arc,  the  peasant 
girl — leans  against  an  apple-tree,  of  which  she  holds  a 
branch  in  her  left  hand,  which,  as  well  as  the  arm,  is  of 
extreme  perfection  ;  the  right  arm  hangs  loosely  by  her 
side  ;  it  is  admirable — the  head  thrown  back,  the  strained 
attitude  of  the  neck,  and  the  eyes  that  look  into  the  future — 
clear,  wonderful  eyes  ;  the  countenance  produces  a  striking 
effect  ;  it  is  that  of  the  peasant,  the  daughter  of  the  soil, 
startled  and  pained  by  her  vision.  The  orchard  surround- 
ing the  house  in  the  background  is  nature's  self ;  but  there 
is  a  something — in  a  word,  the  perspective  of  it  is  not  good  ; 
it  seems  to  crowd  forward  on  the  view,  and  spoils  the  effect 
of  the  figure. 

The  figure  itself  is  sublime,  and  it  produced  on  me  so 


204  JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

strong  an  impression  that  I  can  scarce!}7  restrain  my  tears 
as  I  write. 

This  was  what  most  interested  me  in  the  Salon.  Now 
for  myself  :  We  were  all  going  to  visit  the  Salon  together, 
alter  breakfast,  or  at  least  so  I  thought.  .  .  .  But  no  ;  my 
aunt  went  to  church,  instead,  and  mamma  wanted  to  go 
too,  and  it  was  only  when  they  saw  that  I  was  astonished 
and  offended,  that  they  decided  to  accompany  me,  and  then 
with  a  very  bad  grace.  I  do  not  know  if  it  was  the  modest 
place  I  occupied  that  displeased  them,  and  made  them  un- 
willing to  go,  but  it  is  really  very  hard  to  have  such  a 
family  !  Finally,  ashamed  of  her  indifference,  or  whatever 
else  it  may  have  been,  mamma  went  with  me,  and  Dina 
also,  and  we  met  at  the  Salon,  first,  the  whole  studio,  then 
some  acquaintances,  and  finally  Julian. 

Saturday,  May  i. — One  of  the  most  stupid,  unlocked  for, 
and  annoying  things  imaginable  has  just  happened  to  me  ! 
To-morrow  is  Easter  Sunday,  and  we  were  to  go  to-night 
to  high  mass,  at  which  the  whole  Russian  colony,  beginning 
with  the  embassy,  was  to  be  assembled — all  the  beauty  and 
elegance  and  vanity  of  the  colony  in  the  front  seats.  The 
Russian  women  and  their  gowns  were  of  course  to  be  passed 
in  review  and  commented  upon  by  everybody. 

Well,  at  the  last  moment  they  brought  me  my  gown,  and 
it  looked  like  nothing  but  a  heap  of  old  gauze.  I  went, 
however,  but  no  one  shall  ever  know  the  secret  rage  I  felt. 
My  waist  was  hidden  by  a  badly  made  corsage,  all  askew  ; 
my  arms  were  cramped  by  ill-fitting  sleeves,  much  too 
long  ;  altogether  I  presented  a  ridiculous  appearance,  and, 
in  addition  to  all  this,  the  gauze,  that  I  had  seen  only  by 
daylight,  looked  positively  dirty  at  night. 

Friday,  May  7. — Mme.  Gavini  came  again  to-day  to  tell 
mamma  that  I  am  wearing  myself  out ;  that  is  true,  but  it 


l88o.]         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  205 

is  not  with  painting  ;  to  avoid  wearing  myself  out  it  would 
be  only  necessary  for  me  to  go  to  bed  every  night  at  ten  or 
eleven  o'clock,  while,  as  it  is,  I  stay  up  till  one,  and  waken 
in  the  morning  at  seven. 

Last  night  it  was  that  idiot  S who  was  the  cause  of 

this.  I  was  writing  and  he  came  over  to  speak  to  me  ;  then 
he  went  to  play  cards  with  my  aunt ;  then  I  waited  up  in 
order  to  hear  a  few  silly  words  of  love  from  him.  And 
twenty  times  he  bade  me  good-night,  and  twenty  times  I 
told  him  to  go,  and  twenty  times  he  asked  permission  to  kiss 
my  hand  ;  and  I  laughed  and  said  at  last,  "  Very  well,  it  is 
all  the  same  to  me."  Then  he  kissed  my  hand,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  have  to  confess  that  this  kiss  gave  me  pleasure,  not 
because  of  the  person  who  bestowed  it,  but — for  many  rea- 
sons. And  after  all,  one  is  only  a  woman. 

I  could  still  feel  this  kiss  upon  my  hand  this  morning, 
for  it  was  not  a  kiss  bestowed  simply  through  politeness. 

Ah,  what  creatures  young  girls  are  ! 

Do  you  suppose  I  am  in  love  with  this  young  man  with 

the  long  nose  ?  No,  you  do  not  ?  Well,  the  A affair 

was  nothing  more  than  this.  I  had  been  doing  my  best  to 
fall  in  love,  and  the  Cardinals  and  the  Pope  lent  their  as- 
sistance ;  my  imagination  was  excited  ;  but  as  for  love — 
oh,  no  !  Only  as  I  am  not  now  fifteen,  and,  besides,  am 
not  as  silly  as  I  was  then,  I  exaggerate  nothing,  and  relate 
the  occurrence  just  as  it  took  place. 

The  kiss  upon  ray  hand  troubled  me  especially  because  I 
saw  that  it  had  given  me  pleasure.  Consequently,  I  have 

resolved  to  treat  S with  coldness  in  the  future ;  but  he 

is  such  a  good  fellow,  and  so  simple-minded,  that  it  would 
be  stupid  of  me  to  act  a  part ;  it  would  not  be  worth  while ; 
it  is  better  to  treat  him  as  I  did  Alexis  B— — ,  which  is 
what  I  do.  Dina,  he,  and  I  remained  together  to-night  till 

eleven  o'clock,  S and  I  reading  verses  and  making 

translations  from  the  Latin,  and  Dina  listening.  I  was 


206  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

surprised  to  see  that  this  young  fellow  knows  a  great  deal, — 
at  least  a  great  deal  more  than  I.  I  have  forgotten  a  good 
deal  of  what  I  knew,  and  he  is  just  fresh  from  his  studies 
for  his  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts.  Well,  I  should  like  to 
make  a  friend  of  him — but,  no,  he  does  not  please  me  well 
enough  for  that,  but — a  friendly  acquaintance. 

Saturday,  May  8. — When  I  am  spoken  to,  even  in  a  loud 
tone  of  voice,  I  cannot  hear  !  Tony  asked  me  to-day  if  I 
had  seen  anything  of  Perugino,  and  I  answered  "  No," 
without  understanding  what  he  said. 

Thursday,  May  13. — I  have  snch  a  buzzing  in  my  ears 
that  I  have  to  make  the  greatest  efforts  to  prevent  the  dis- 
tress it  causes  me  from  being  perceived. 

Oh,  it  is  horrible !  With  S it  is  not  so  much  matter, 

because  he  sits  near  me,  and  whenever  I  wish  I  can  tell 

him  that  he  bores  me.  But  the  G s  raise  their  voices 

when  they  speak  to  me  ;  and  at  the  studio  they  laugh  at 
me,  and  tell  me  I  am  growing  deaf.  I  pretend  that  it  is 
only  absent-mindedness,  and  make  a  jest  of  it,  but  it  is 
horrible  ! 

Sunday,  May  16. — I  went  to  the  Salon  alone  early  this 
morning;  only  those  who  had  cards  of  admission  were 
there.  I  looked  for  a  long  time  at  the  Jeanne  d'Arc,  and 
still  longer  at  -the  "  Good  Samaritan  "  of  Morot.  I  seated 
myself  in  front  of  the  Morot,  with  a  lorgnette  in  my  hand,  so 
as  to  study  it  carefully.  It  is  the  picture  that,  of  all  I  have 
seen,  has  given  me  the  greatest  pleasure.  There  is  nothing 
cramped  in  it  ;  all  is  simple,  true,  natural ;  every  object  in 
it  is  copied  from  nature,  and  there  is  nothing  that  recalls 
the  hideous  conventional  beauty  of  the  school.  It  is  charm- 
ing to  look  at ;  even  the  head  of  the  ass  is  perfect ;  the 
landscape,  the  mantle,  the  very  toe-nails,  Everything  is 


I88o.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAS1IK1RTSEFF.  207 

harmonious,  everything  is  correct,  everything  is  as  it 
should  be. 

The  head  of  the  Jeanne  d'Arc  is  sublime.  These  two 
paintings  are  in  two  adjoining  rooms.  I  went  back  and 
forth  from  the  one  to  the  other.  I  was  looking  through 
my  lorgnette  at  the  Morot  and  thinking  of  that  poor  fellow 
— ,  when  he  passed  in  front  of  me,  without  seeing  me, 
however,  and  when  I  was  going  away  I  again  saw  him  from 
the  garden  pointing  out  my  picture  to  another  person  who 
looked  like  a  journalist. 

Friday,  June  18. — I  have  worked  all  day  to-day  at  my 

painting.  In  the  evening  S came.  I  attributed  his 

evident  depression  to  his  being  in  love,  but  there  was 
something  more  than  this  the  matter.  He  goes  to  Buch- 
arest or  to  Lille  as  director  of  his  brother's  bank.  But, 
besides  this,  and  above  all,  he  desires  to  get  married  ;  ah, 
his  heart  is  set  upon  it !  As  for  me,  I  smiled  and  told  him 
he  was  bold  and  presumptuous,  and  explained  to  him  that  I 
had  no  dowry,  as  all  my  dowry  would  be  no  more  than 
enough  for  pin-money,  and  that  he  would  have  to  lodge 
me  and  feed  me,  and  provide  me  with  amusement  at  his 
own  cost. 

Poor  fellow,  I  felt  sorry  for  him  all  the  same. 

He  kissed  my  hands  a  hundred  times,  entreating  me  to 
think  of  him  sometimes.  "  You  will  think  of  me  sometimes  ? 
Speak,  I  entreat  you  ;  tell  me  you  will  sometimes  think  of 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Whenever  I  find  time." 

But  he  begged  so  hard  that  I  was  obliged  at  last  to  give 
him  a  hasty  yes.  Ah,  our  adieus  were  tragic— at  least  on 
his  side.  We  were  standing  near  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room,  and  I  gave  him  my  hand  to  kiss,  so  that  he  might 
carry  away  with  him  a  romantic  recollection  of  our  parting, 
and  then  we  gravely  shook  hands. 


208  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

I  remained  pensive  for  a  full  minute  after  he  had  gone. 
I  shall  miss  this  boy.  He  is  to  write  to  me. 

Sunday,  June  20. — I  spent  the  morning  at  the  Salon, 
which  closes  this  evening.  The  "  Good  Samaritan  "  has 
received  the  medal  of  honor. 

The  landscape  of  Bastien-Lepage  is  not  perfect,  it  spoils 
the  figure  ;  but  what  an  admirable  figure  !  The  head  is 
a  piece  of  art  that  stands  absolutely  unrivaled.  I  found 
Morot's  picture  almost  tiresome  to-day,  while  Bastien- 
Lepage  I  admired  more  than  ever.  I  went  from  the  one 
to  the  other,  and  then  to  a  "  Sleeping  Head,"  of  Henner,  and 
a  little  nymph  by  him  also.  Henner  is  grace  itself.  It  is 
not  altogether  nature,  but — but  no,  it  must  be  nature  ;  it  is 
adorable.  His  "  Nymphs  by  Twilight "  is  incomparable 
and  inimitable.  He  nevers  varies,  but  is  always  charming. 
His  nude  figures  at  the  Luxembourg  are  not  so  good  as  his 
later  work.  His  last  year's  picture  is  the  best  of  his  work 
that  I  have  seen.  I  longed  passionately  to  buy  it.  I  look 
at  it  every  day.  Ah,  if  I  were  only  rich  !  The  effect  the 
Morot  produces  on  me  is  a  singular  one.  I  find  him  tire- 
some beside  Bastien-Lepage  and  Henner.  Henner  ! — his 
charm  is  inexpressible ! 

MONT-DORE,  Tuesday,  July  20. — I  went  to  Julian's  yester- 
day with  Villevielle,  to  get  my  keys,  which  I  had  forgotten. 
This  man  encourages  me  greatly,  and  I  leave  Paris  in  good 
spirits.  One  consolation  is  that  I  am  no  longer  afraid  of 
Breslau.  "  The  thing  with  her "  (meaning  me),  Julian 
says,  "  is  that  it  is  not  painting,  but  the  object  itself  ;  and 
even  when  she  does  not  quite  reach  it,  you  can  see  that  the 
effort  has  been  in  that  direction." 

We  are  badly  lodged,  the  house  is  full,  and  the  cooking 
atrocious. 

Wednesday,  July  21. — I  have  begun  a  course  of  treat- 


1880.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  209 

ment.  They  come  for  me  with  an  air-tight  sedan-chair, 
and  a  costume  of  white  flannel  trousers  reaching  to  the 
feet,  and  a  cloak  with  a  hood. 

Then  follow  a  bath,  a  douche,  drinking  the  waters,  and 
inhalations.  I  agree  to  everything.  This  is  the  last  time 
I  shall  submit  to  all  these  things,  and  I  should  not  do  so 
now,  if  it  were  not  for  the  fear  of  growing  deaf.  My  deaf- 
ness is  much  better  ;  almost  well,  in  fact. 

Friday,  July  23. — Who  will  restore  me  my  youth — my 
squandered,  stolen,  vanished  youth  !  I  am  not  yet  twenty, 
and  the  other  day  I"  pulled  out  three  gray  hairs.  I  am 
proud  of  them  ;  they  are  the  terrible  proof  that  I  have 
exaggerated  nothing.  If  it  were  not  for  my  childish 
figure  I  should  look  like  an  old  woman.  Is  this  natural  at 
my  age  ? 

I  had  a  wonderful  voice  ;  it  was  a  gift  from  God,  and  I 
have  lost  it.  Song  for  a  woman  is  what  eloquence  is  for  a 
man — a  power  without  limit. 

In  the  park  which  my  window  overlooks  I  saw  Mme. 
Rothschild  to-day,  with  her  horses,  her  grooms,  etc.  The 
sight  of  this  fortunate  woman  gave  me  pain  ;  but  I  must  be 
brave.  Besides,  when  suffering  becomes  too  severe  there 
comes  deliverance  from  it.  When  it  reaches  a 'certain 
point  then  we  know  it  must  begin  to  diminish  ;  it  is  while 
awaiting  this  crisis  of  the  heart  and  soul  that  we  suffer ; 
when  it  has  once  come,  then  our  sufferings  begin  to  admit 
of  consolation — then  one  can  call  Epictetus  to  one's  aid, 
or  one  can  pray  ;  but  there  is  this  about  prayer :  it  stirs  the 
emotions.  , 

Tuesday,  July  27. — I  tried  to  paint  a  landscape  to-day, 
but  it  ended  in  my  flinging  away  the  canvas  ;  there  was  a 
little  girl  of  about  four  years  old  standing  beside  me  watch- 
ing me  while  1  painted,  and  instead  of  looking  at  my  land- 


210  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEF2'\          [iS8o. 

scape  I  looked  at  the  child,  who  is  to  sit  for  me  to-morrow. 
How  can  any  other  subject  be  preferred  to  the  human 
form? 

I  have  such  a  pain  running  from  the  right  ear  down  the 
neck  that  it  almost  drives  me  crazy.  I  have  said  nothing 
about  it — it  would  only  trouble  my  aunt ;  and  then  I  know 
it  is  caused  by  my  sore  throat. 

Here  I  have  been  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours  suffer- 
ing tortures.  I  find  it  impossible  to  sleep,  or  to  do  any- 
thing else  whatever.  Even  my  reading  I  have  to  leave  off 
at  every  moment.  I  think  it  is  this  pain  that  makes  every- 
thing look  black  around  me.  Misery  of  miseries  ! 

Saturday,  July  31. — Before  I  left  Paris  I  read  "Indiana," 
by  Georges  Sand,  and  I  can  assure  you  I  did  not  find  it 
amusing.  As  I  have  only  read  "  La  Petite  Fadette," 
"  Indiana,"  and  two  or  three  other  novels  of  hers,  perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  express  an  opinion  on  the  subject ;  but  so 
far  I  do  not  enjoy  this  author  at  all. 

I  thought  of  taking  a  ride  to-day,  but  I  have  no  mind 
for  anything,  and  when  I  spend  the  day  without  working  I 
suffer  the  most  frightful  remorse,  and  there  are  days  when 
I  can  do  nothing  ;  on  such  occasions  I  say  to  myself  that  I 
could  work  if  I  tried,  and  then  follow  self-reproaches,  and 
it  ends  by  my  exclaiming,  "  Better  give  it  all  up  !  Life  is 
not  worth  the  trouble  ! "  And  then  I  sit  down  and  smoke 
cigarettes  and  read  novels. 

Tuesday,  August  17. — I  have  never  had  the  perseverance 
to  finish  any  piece  of  writing.  Something,  of  interest  takes 
place  ;  it  occurs  to  me  to  write  an  article  about  it ;  I  sketch 
this  out,  and  on  the  following  day  I  see  in  one  of  the 
papers  an  article  resembling  mine,  or  at  least  one  that 
renders  mine  useless.  My  studies  in  art  have  taught  me 
that  in  order  to  succeed  in  anything  persistent  effort  in  the 


i8So.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASH KIRTSEFF.  211 

beginning  is  indispensable.  "  The  first  step  is  the  most 
difficult  one."  This  proverb  never  struck  me  so  forcibly 
as  now. 

And  then  there  is  the  question  also,  and  above  all,  of  en- 
rironment.  Mine  may  be  characterized,  notwithstanding 
the  best  will  in  the  world,  as  stultifying.  The  members  of 
my  family  are,  for  the  most  part,  ignorant  and  common- 
place. Then  there  is  Mme.  G ,  who  is  a  worldly 

woman,  par  excellence  ;  and  you  know  who  our  habitues  are. 

M and  some  insignificant  young  people.    So  that  I  can 

assure  you  if  it  were  not  for  my  own  companionship,  and 
my  reading,  I  should  be  even  less  intelligent  than  I  am. 

Wednesday,  August  18. — We  took  a  long  ride  to-day, — 
five  hours  on  horseback,  and  with  this  debilitating  treat- 
ment, and  I  am  literally  tired  to  death. 

I  fear  the  result  of  the  treatment  will  prove  this  stupid 
doctor  here,  who  pretended  that  I  was  weak,  to  be  in  the 
right.  It  is  true  that  he  assured  me,  when  I  had  got 
through  with  it,  that  in  order  to  have  borne  twenty-one 
baths  as  well  as  I  did,  I  must  have  been  very  strong.  Med- 
icine is  a  sorry  science. 

We  ascended  to  the  summit  of  Sancy ;  the  mountains 
that  frame  in  the  horrible  Mont-Dore,  seen  from  this 
height,  appear  flat.  The  spectacle  from  the  top  of  Sancy 
is  truly  sublime  ;  I  should  love  to  see  the  sun  rise  from 
there.  The  far  horizon  has  a  bluish  tint  that  reminded  me 
of  the  Mediterranean,  and  that  is  all  there  is  that  is  beauti- 
ful about  the  place.  The  ascent  on  foot  is  very  fatiguing, 
but  when  one  has  reached  the  top  one  seems  to  dominate 
the  world. 

Thursday,  August  19.— I  am  good  for  nothing  this  morn- 
ing ;  my  eyes  are  tired,  my  head  aches.  And  to  think  I 
shall  not  leave  here  till  Saturday  !  To-day  it  is  too  late, 


2  i  2         jo  URNAL  OF  MARIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF. 

to-morrow  is  Friday,  and  if  I  were  to  travel  on  Friday,  I 
should  think  all  the  stupid  things  that  invariably  happen  to 
me  on  such  occasions  happened  on  that  account. 

PARIS,  Sunday,  August  29,  eight  o'clock. — How  comfort- 
able and  pretty  my  studio  looks  ! 

I  have  been  reading  the  illustrated  weekly  papers,  and 
some  pamphlets.  Everything  goes  on  in  the  same  routine 
as  before,  just  as  if  I  had  not  been  away. 

Two  o'clock. — I  console  myself  by  thinking  that  my  trou- 
bles are  only  the  equivalent  of  the  troubles  of  other  kinds 
that  other  artists  have  to  suffer,  as  I  have  neither  poverty 
nor  the  tyranny  of  parents  to  bear — for  it  is  those,  is  it  not, 
that  artists  have  chiefly  to  complain  of  ? 

I  make  some  good  resolution,  and  then  on  a  sudden  I 
commit  some  folly,  as  if  I  were  acting  in  a  dream  !  I  de- 
spise and  detest  myself,  as  I  despise  and  detest  every  one 
else,  including  the  members  of  my  own  family.  Oh,  one's 
family  !  My  aunt  employed  a  dozen  little  stratagems  on 
the  journey  to  make  me  sit  on  the  side  of  the  car  on  which 
the  window  did  not  open.  Tired  of  resisting  I  at  last  con- 
sented, on  condition  that  the  window  on  the  other  side 
should  be  opened  ;  and  no  sooner  had  I  fallen  asleep  than 
they  closed  it  again.  I  woke  up  exclaiming  that  I  would 
break  open  the  window  with  my  heels,  but  we  had  already 
arrived.  And  then  at  breakfast,  afterward,  such  frowns, 
such  looks  of  anguish,  because  I  did  not  eat.  Evidently 
these  people  love  me,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  when  people 
love  one  they  should  be  able  to  understand  one  better. 

Just  indignation  renders  one  eloquent. 

And  then — mamma  is  always  talking  about  God  :  "  If 
God  wills  it";  "With  the  help  of  God."  When  one  in- 
vokes the  name  of  God  so  often  it  is  only  as  an  excuse  for 
leaving  a  number  of  petty  duties  undone. 

This  is  not  faith,  nor  even  religion  ;  it  is  a  mania,  a  vice, 


ISSo.j         JOURNAL  Of  MARtE  BASHKlRTSEFF.  213 

the  cowardliness  of  laziness,  of  incapacity,  "of  indolence. 
What  can  be  more  unworthy  than  to  seek  to  cover  all  one's 
shortcomings  by  the  word  "  God."  It  is  not  only  unwor- 
thy, it  is  criminal,  if  one  believes  in  God.  "  If  it  is  written 
that  such  a  thing  is  to  happen,  it  will  happen,"  she  says, 
so  as  to  avoid  the  trouble  of  exerting  herself,  and— re- 
morse. 

If  everything  were  ordered  beforehand,  God  would  be 
nothing  more  than  a  constitutional  president,  and  free  will, 
vice,  and  virtue  idle  words. 

Tuesday,  September  7. — It  is  raining  ;  all  the  most  disa- 
greeable events  of  my  life  pass  in  review  before  me,  and 
there  are  some  of  them,  far  back  in  the  past,  that  to  think 
of  makes  me  start  in  my  chair  and  clinch  my  hands  as  if  a 
physical  pain  had  suddenly  seized  me. 

In  order  that  I  should  grow  better,  it  would  be  necessary 
for  me  to  change  all  my  surroundings  ;  I  know  beforehand 
all  that  mamma  or  my  aunt  will  say  or  do  in  such  or  such 
circumstances,  what  they  will  wear  receiving  visitors, 
when  they  go  out  to  take  an  airing,  when  they  are  in  the 
country — and  all  this  irritates  me  frightfully ;  it  produces 
the  same  effect  upon  me  as  it  would  to  listen  to  the  cutting 
of  glass. 

It  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  change  my  surround- 
ings completely,  and  then,  when  my  spirit  was  more 
tranquil,  I  should  no  doubt  love  them  as  they  deserve  to 
be  loved.  Meantime,  however,  they  worry  me  to  death. 
When  I  refuse  any  dish  at  table  they  wear  the  most  fright- 
ful looks  ;  they  employ  every  device  to  avoid  the  use 
of  ice  at  table,  as  they  fancy  it  might  hurt.  me.  When  I 
open  a  window  they  steal  to  it  like  thieves  to  close  it  again  ; 
and  do  a  thousand  other  silly  things  of  the  kind  that  irritate 
my  nerves.  But  I  am  possessed  with  a  hatred  for  every- 
thing belonging  to  this  house.  What  gives  me  most 


214  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIR TSEFF.          [1880. 

uneasiness  is  that  my  faculties  are  rusting  in  this  solitude  ; 
all  these  somber  colors  tinge  my.  thoughts  with  gloom  and 
throw  my  mind  back  upon  itself.  I  fear  that  these  dark 
surroundings  may  leave  a  lasting  impression  upon  my 
character,  and  render  it  sour,  morose,  and  embittered.  I 
have  no  wish  that  this  should  be  so,  but  I  fear  that  it  will 
be  the  case,  owing  to  the  efforts  that  I  am  compelled  to 
make  to  prevent  the  rage  with  which  they  are  continually 
inspiring  me,  from  appearing  on  the  surface. 

Friday,  September  10. — A  profound  emotion  for  my  aunt 
to-day  !  Dr.  Fauvel,  who  examined  my  lungs  a  week  ago 
and  found  nothing  the  matter  with  them  then,  examined 
them  again  to-day  and  discovered  that  the  bronchial  tubes 
are  affected.  He  seemed  serious,  moved,  and  somewhat 
confused  at  not  having  foreseen  the  gravity  of  the  disease  ; 
then  followed  prescriptions  for  the  remedies  used  by  con- 
sumptives— cod-liver  oil,  painting  the  chest  with  iodine,  hot 
milk,  flannel  underwear,  etc.,  and  finally  he  advised  me  to 
consult  Dr.  See  or  Dr.  Potain,  or  to  call  them  in  in  consul- 
tation with  him.  You  may  imagine  the  expression  in  my 
aunt's  countenance  !  For  my  part  all  this  amuses  me;  I 
have  suspected  something  of  the  kind  for  a  long  time  past ; 
I  have  been  coughing  all  the  winter,  and  I  cough  still,  and 
experience  difficulty  in  breathing  besides.  The  wonder 
would  be  if  nothing  were  the  matter  with  me  ;  I  should  be 
well  pleased  if  something  were  the  matter,  so  as  to  be  done 
with  it.  My  aunt  is  terrified  ;  I,  delighted.  The  thought 
of  death  does  not  frighten  me.  I  should  not  dare  to  kill 
myself,  but  I  should  like  to  be  done  with  life.  If  you  but 
knew — I  shall  wear  no  flannel  and  I  will  not  stain  my  chest 
with  iodine.  I  have  no  desire  to  get  well.  I  shall  have  life 
enough  and  health  enough  without  that  for  all  I  want  to  do. 

Friday,  September  17. — I    went  again  yesterday  to  see  the 


iSSo.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  21$ 

doctor  who  was  treating  me  for  my  deafness.  He  con- 
fessed to  me  that  he  had  not  thought  the  trouble  so  serious, 
and  told  me  that  I  shall  never  again  be  able  to  hear  as  well 
as  formerly.  I  was  completely  overwhelmed  by  his  words. 
It  is  horrible  !  I  am  not  deaf,  it  is  true,  but  my  ear  per- 
ceives sound  only  through  a  mist,  as  it  were.  For  instance, 
I  can  no  longer  hear,  and  perhaps  shall  never  be  able  to 
hear  again,  the  tick-tick  of  my  alarm  clock,  unless  by  put- 
ting my  ear  close  to  it.  This,  indeed,  may  be  called  a  mis- 
fortune. In  conversation  many  things  escape  me.  Well, 
let  me  thank  Heaven,  that  I  have  not  also  became  blind  or 
dumb. 

Tuesday,  September  28. — Since  last  night  I  have  been 
happy.  I  dreamed  of  //////.  He  was  ill,  and  he  looked 
ugly,  but  that  did  not  matter ;  I  know  now  that  love  is  not 
dependent  for  its  existence  on  the  possession  of  beauty  by 
the  beloved  object.  We  talked  together  like  two  friends  as 
we  used  to  do,  as  we  would  do  now  if  we  were  to  meet 
again.  All  I  asked  for  was  that  our  friendship  might  not 
transgress  the  limits  beyond  which  it  would  become  subject 
to  change.  • 

This  was  the  dream  I  cherished  in  my  waking  hours,  also. 
In  a  word,  I  have  never  been  so  happy  as  I  was  last  night. 

Wednesday,  September  29. — Since  yesterday  my  complex- 
ion has  been  wonderfully  fresh  and  clear  and  beautiful,  and 
my  eyes  brilliant  and  animated.  Even  the  contour  of  my 
face  is  more  delicate  and  more  perfect  than  before.  Only 
it  is  a  pity  that  this  is  at  a  time  when  there  is  no  one  to  see 
me.  It  is  a  silly  thing  to  say,  but  I  remained  standing  for 
half-an-hour  before  the  glass  for  the  pleasure  of  looking 
at  myself ;  it  is  a  long  time  since  this  has  happened. 

Friday,  October  i  — Oh,   Frenchmen  who  complain  that 


2i6  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1880. 

you  are  neither  free  nor  happy  !  The  same  state  of  things 
exists  now  in  Russia  as  existed  in  France  during  the  Reign 
of  Terror — by  a  word,  a  gesture,  one  may  bring  ruin  on 
one's-self.  Ah,  how  much  there  still  remains  to  be  done 
that  men  might  be  even  approximately  happy  ! 

Sunday,  October  3. —  I  am  very  sad  to-day. 

No,  there  is  no  help  for  me.  For  four  years  I  have 
been  treated  by  the  most  celebrated  doctors  for  laryngitis, 
and  my  health  has  been  going  from  bad  to  worse  during  all 
that  time. 

For  the  last  four  days  I  was  able  to  hear  well  ;  now,  how- 
ever, the  deafness  is  beginning  again. 

Well,  I  will  make  a  prediction  : 

I  am  going  to  die,  but  not  just  yet — that  would  be  too 
much  good  fortune — that  would  be  to  end  my  sufferings  at 
once.  I  shall  go  on  dragging  out  a  miserable  existence  for 
a  few  years  longer  with  my  cough,  my  colds,  fevers,  and 
other  ailments. 

Monday,  October  4. — I  wrote  to  my  music-teacher  at 
Naples,  a  short  time  since,  for  some*music  for  the  mando- 
lin. I  have  just  received  his  answer.  I  confess,  notwith- 
standing my  realistic  tendencies  (a  word  very  little  under- 
stood) and  my  republican  sentiments,  I  am  very  sensible  to 
the  charm  of  the  flowery  style  of  these  Italians. 

And  why  should  not  the  two  things  go  together  ? 

But  this  style  must  be  left  to  the  Italians  ;  in  others  it 
appears  ridiculous.  Ah,  when  shall  I  be  able  to  go  to 
Italy  ? 

How  tame  every  other  place  is  after  Italy  !  Never  has 
any  other  country,  never  has  any  one's  presence  produced 
in  me  so  strong  an  emotion  as  the  mere  recollection  of  Italy 
now  awakens  within  me. 

Why  should  I  not  return  there?     And  my  painting?     Do 


l88o.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEI1.  217 

I  know  enough  to  go  on  in  the  right  direction  without 
further  instruction  ?     I  cannot  say. 

No,  I  will  remain  in  Paris  this  winter.  1  will  go  to  spend 
the  Carnival  in  Italy.  The  winter  of  1881-1882  1  will  spend 
at  St.  Petersburg.  If  I  do  not  marry  a  rich  man  then,  I 
shall  return  to  Paris  or  to  Italy  in  1882  or  1883.  And  then 
I  will  marry  a  nobleman  with  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  who  will  be  very  glad  to  accept  my  income 
and  myself.  Am  I  not  wise  to  allow  myself  three  years  of 
liberty  before  capitulating? 

Tuesday,  October  5. — There  is  nothing  left  me  to  do  but  to 
resign  myself  to  the  inevitable  ;  or  rather  to  summon  all  my 
courage,  and,  standing  face  to  face  with  myself,  ask  myself 
if  this  be  not,  after  all,  a  matter  of  indifference.  To  have 
lived  in  one  manner  or  in  another,  what  does  it  matter  ? 
I  must  learn  to  conquer  my  sensations,  and  to  say  with 
Epictetus  that  it  is  in  one's  own  power  to  accept  evil  as  a 
good,  or  rather  to  accept  with  indifference  whatever  hap- 
pens. One  must  have  suffered  horribly  to  be  reconciled  to 
this  species  of  death  as  a  way  out  of  life,  and  it  is  only  after 
one  has  endured  indescribable  sufferings,  after  one  has  sunk 
into  a  state  of  complete  despair,  that  one  begins  to  compre- 
hend how  it  is  possible  to  lead  this  living  death.  And  yet, 
if  one  were  to  make  the  effort  one  might  learn  to  accept 
one's  fate  with  calmness  at  least.  This  is  not  a  vain  delu- 
sion ;  it  is  something  possible. 

When  one  has  reached  a  certain  point  in  physical  suffering 
one  loses  consciousness,  or  else  falls  into  a  state  of  ecstasy. 
The  same  thing  takes  place  in  the  case  of  mental  suffering. 
When  it  has  reached  a  certain  point  the  soul  soars  superior 
to  it,  one  regards  as  insignificant  one's  former  sufferings, 
and  goes  forward  to  one's  fate  with  head  erect,  as  the  mar- 
tyrs did  of  old. 

For  the  fifty  years  or  so  I  may  still  have  to  live,  of  what 


218  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASPIKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

consequence  would  it  be  whether  they  were  passed  in  a 
prison  or  in  a  palace,  among  people  or  in  solitude  ?  The 
end  would  be  the  same.  What  I  am  troubled  about,  then, 
is  the  sensations  experienced  during  this  period,  and  which, 
when  they  have  passed,  leave  no  trace  behind  ?  But  what 
does  a  thing  matter  which  is  of  short  duration,  and  which, 
when  it  is  past,  leaves  no  trace  of  its  existence  ?  What  it 
concerns  me  to  do,  since  I  have  the  power,  is  to  utilize  my 
life  in  the  pursuit  of  art — this  may  give  evidence  of  my 
existence  after  I  am  dead. 

Saturday,  October  9. — I  have  done  nothing  this  week,  and 
inaction  has  made  me  stupid.  I  glanced  through  the 
account  of  my  journey  to  Russia,  and  it  interested  me 
very  much. 

Georges  Sand  is  a  writer  with  whom  I  have  no  sympathy  ; 
and  she  does  not  even  possess,  in  the  same  degree  as  Gau- 
tier,  the  vigor,  the  audacity,  that  inspire  one  with  admira- 
tion, if  not  with  liking,  for  him.  Georges  Sand — well,  she  is 
well  enough.  Among  contemporary  writers  I  like  Daudet 
best.  His  works,  it  is  true,  are  only  novels,  but  they  are 
full  of  just  observations,  of  truth  to  nature,  of  genuine  feel- 
ing ;  his  characters  live. 

As  for  Zola,  I  am  not  on  very  good  terms  with  him.  He 
has  thought  fit  to  attack,  in  Figaro,  Ranc,  and  others  of  the 
Republican  party,  with  a  virulence  that  is  both  in  bad  taste 
and  unbecoming  alike  to  his  great  genius  and  his  high  liter- 
ary position. 

But  what  do  people  see  in  the  writings  of  Georges  Sand  ? 
Novels  beautifully  written,  yes  ;  but  what  more  ?  As  for 
me,  I  find  her  novels  tiresome,  which  is  never  the  case  with 
Balzac,  the  two  Dumas,  Zola,  Daudet,  or  Musset.  Victor 
Hugo,  in  his  most  wildly  romantic  prose-writing,  is  never 
tiresome  ;  one  feels  the  spell  of  his  genius.  But  Georges 
Sand  !  How  can  any  one  have  the  patience  to  read  three 


iSSo.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  219 

hundred  pages  filled  with  the  sayings  and  doings  of  Valen- 
tine and  Benedict,  the  uncle,  a  gardener  and  so  on.  Her 
theme  is  always  the  same  :  the  equalizing  of  classes  by 
means  of  love — which  is  an  ignoble  one. 

Let  social  distinctions  be  abolished — well  and  good  ;  but 
let  it  be  done  by  a  more  dignified  means  than  this. 

To  present  the  picture  of  a  countess  in  love  with  her 
valet,  and  to  write  long  dissertations  on  the  subject — in 
this  does  the  genius  of  Georges  Sand  consist.  She  has  writ- 
ten  some  good  novels,  it  is  true,  containing  some  very  pretty 
descriptions  of  country  life  ;  but  I  require  in  a  writer  some- 
thing more  than  this. 

I  am  reading  "Valentine  "  at  present,  and  the  book  irri- 
tates me,  because,  while  it  is  interesting  enough  to  make  me 
wish  to  finish  it,  every  time  I  lay  it  down  I  find  that  it  has 
left  nothing  in  my  mind  but  a  vaguely  disagreeable  impres- 
sion. I  feel  as  if  .1  lowered  myself  by  this  species  of  read- 
ing ;  I  dislike  the  book,  and  yet  I  go  on  reading  it  and 
shall  go  on  with  it  to  the  end,  unless  it  should  prove  as  tire- 
some as  the  "  Dernier  Amour,"  of  the  same  author.  "  Val- 
entine," however,  is  the  best  of  Georges  Sand's  novels  that 
I  have  read  ;  the  "  Marquis  de  Villemer,"  too,  is  good.  I 
believe  there  is  no  groom  in  love  with  a  countess  in  it. 

Sunday,  October  10. — I  spent  the  morning  at  the  Louvre, 
and  was  dazzled  by  what  I  saw  there.  I  see  now  that  I 
never  had  a  clear  understanding  of  art  before  ;  I  looked, 
and  admired  in  set  phrases  like  the  great  majority  of  people. 
Ah,  when  one  can  feel  and  comprehend  art  as  I  do  now, 
one  has  no  ordinary  soul.  To  feel  that  a  thing  is  beauti- 
ful, and  understand  why  it  is  beautiful— this  is  a  great 
happiness. 

Monday,  October  n.— I  set  to  work  on  my  picture  to-day, 
full  of  yesterday's  excitement.  It  is  impossible  not  to 


220  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1880. 

achieve  success  when  one  .has  had  revelations  such  as  I  had 
yesterday. 

Tuesday,  October  19. — Alas  !  All  this  will  end,  after  drag- 
ging out  a  few  more  years  of  miserable  existence,  in  death. 

I  have  always  felt  that  it  must  end  in  this  way.  One 
could  not  live  long  with  a  brain  like  mine.  I  am  like  those 
too  precocious  children  who  are  doomed  to  an  early  death. 

I  required  too  many  things  for  my  happiness,  and  circum- 
stances were  such  that  I  was  deprived  of  everything,  even 
physical  well-being. 

Two  or  three  years  ago — even  six  months  ago — each  time 
I  went  to  a  new  doctor  in  the  hope  of  recovering  my  voice, 
he  would  ask  me  if  I  did  not  feel  such  and  such  asymptom, 
and  when  I  answered  no,  he  would  say :  "  No,  there  is 
nothing  in  the  bronchial  tubes  or  the  lungs  ;  it  is  the  larynx 
only  that  is  affected."  Now  I  begin  to  feel  all  the  symp- 
toms the  doctors  imagined  I  had  then.  Therefore  the 
bronchial  tubes  and  the  lungs  must  now  be  affected.  True 
it  is  nothing  as  yet,  or  almost  nothing.  Fauvel  ordered 
iodine  and  a  .blister ;  naturally  I  cried  out  in  horror  ;  I 
would  rather  break  an  arm  than  suffer  myself  to  be  blistered. 
Three  years  ago  a  doctor  at  one  of  the  watering-places  in 
Germany  found  some  trouble — I  don't  know  just  what — in 
the  right  lung,  under  the  shoulder-blade.  This  made  me 
laugh  heartily.  And  again  at  Nice,  five  years  ago,  I  felt 
something  like  a  pain  in  the  same  spot.  The  only  thing  I 
feared,  however,  was  that  I  was  going  to  become  hump- 
backed, as  two  of  my  aunts,  sisters  of  my  father,  were  ; 
and  now  again,  a  few  months  since,  the  doctors  asked  me  if 
I  felt  anything  there.  I  answered,  no,  without  thinking. 
When  I  cough  now,  or  even  when  I  draw  a  full  breath,  I 
feel  the  pain  there,  in  the  right  lung,  at  the  back.  All  these 
things  together  make  me  believe  that  there  may  be  really 
something  there.  I  take  a  sort  of  pride  in  showing  that  \ 


i83o.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  221 

am  ill,  yet  I  am  scarcely  pleased  at  it.  It  is  an  ugly  death— 
a  very  slow  one,  four,  five,  ten  years  perhaps,  and  one  grows 
so  thin,  and  loses  all  one's  good  looks. 

I  have  not  as  yet  grown  much  thinner  ;  I  am  just  as  one 
ought  to  be  ;  the  only  thing  is  that  I  look  tired.  I  cough 
a  great  deal,  and  I  find  difficulty  in  breathing.  And  yet  for 
the  past  four  years  I  have  been  under  the  care  of  the  most 
celebrated  doctors  ;  I  have  taken  the  waters  they  have 
ordered,  yet  not  only  have  I  not  recovered  my  beautiful 
voice— so  beautiful  that  it  almost  makes  me  cry  to  think  of 
it — but  I  grow  worse  and  worse  every  day,  and,  let  me  write 
the  horrible  word,  a  little  deaf. 

Provided  death  come  quickly,  however,  I  shall  not  com- 
plain. 

Friday,  October  22 — It  is  raining,  and  the  weather  is 
cold, — bitterly,  frightfully  cold.  So  I  am  in  sympathy  with 
the  weather,  and  I  cough  without  ceasing.  Ah,  what  mis- 
ery, and  what  a  horrible  existence  is  mine  !  At  half-past 
three  there  is  no  longer  light  enough  to  paint,  and  if  I  read  by 
artificial  light  my  eyes  are  too  fatigued  to  paint  on  the 
following  day.  The  few  people  I  might  see  I  shun  through 
the  fear  of  not  being  able  to  hear  what  they  say.  There  are 
some  days  when  I  can  hear  very  well,  and  others  when  I  can 
scarcely  hear  at  all,  and  then  I  suffer  nameless  tortures.  It 
cannot  be  that  God  will  allow  this  state  of  things  to  con- 
tinue. I  am  ready  to  suffer  every  kind  of  misery,  however, 
provided  only  I  am  not  asked  to  see  any  one.  Every  time 
the  bell  rings  I  shudder.  This  new  and  horrible  misfortune 
makes  me  dread  everything  that  I  had  before  desired. 
Think  what  it  must  be  for  me  who  am  by  nature  gay  and 
fond  of  jesting  !  I  laugh  as  much  as  Mile.  Samary  of  the 
Theatre  Fran?ais ;  but  this  is  rather  from  habit  than 
any  wish  to  conceal  my  feelings.  I  shall  always  laugh. 
All  is  over  with  me  ;  not  only  do  I  believe  that  all  is  over, 


222  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [iSSo. 

but  I  desire  that  it  should  be  so.     There  are  no  words  with 
which  to  express  my  dejection. 

Monday,  October  25. — I  am  reading  "Les  Chatiments  "; 
Yes,  Victor  Hugo  is  a  genius.  Perhaps  I  do  wrong  even 
to  suspect  that  I  have  found  certain  of  his  lyrical  transports 
extravagant,  not  to  say  tiresome.  No,  it  is  not  the  case ; 
he  is  beautiful,  he  is  sublime,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
exaggerated  expressions  he  at  times  makes  use  of,  he  is 
human, 'he  is  natural,  he  is  charming.  But  I  like  his  passages 
of  touching  simplicity  best — the  last  act  of  Hernani,  for 
instance,  where  Dona  Sol  pleads  with  the  old  man  for  pity  ; 
and  the  words  of  the  old  grandmotherwhose  grandchild  had 
received  two  bullets  in  the  brain. 

Monday \  November  i. — Our  studio  now  enjoys  the  same 
advantages  as  the  studio  of  the  men,  that  is  to  say,  we  draw 
from  the  nude  every  day  from  the  same  model  in  the  same  pose 
as  they  do  ;  consequently  we  can  now  paint  compositions 
of  more  importance  than  before.  This  would  have  been  use- 
less to  me  for  the  last  few  months,  but  I  have  now  reached 
the  point  at  which  I  am  able  to  profit  by  it.  We  are  only 
eight  in  the  studio  now  ;  the  other  pupils,  to  the  number 
of  twenty-two,  have  gone  to  Julian's  new  studio,  51  Rue 
Vivienne,  which  is  on  the  same  basis  as  this  was  formerly. 

Tuesday,  November  2. — For  a  week  past  I  have  had  my 
breakfast  brought  from  the  house  to  the  studio.  This  is 
much  more  sensible  than  to  run  back  and  forth  between 
the  Rue  Vivienne  and  the  Champs  Elyse"es,  and  thus  lose 
the  best  hours  of  the  day.  In  this  way  I  am  able  to  work 
from  eight  o'clock  till  noon,  and  from  one  till  four. 

Wednesday,  Noi'ember  10.  — It  is  horrible  to  have  worked 
without  ceasing  for  three  years,  only  to  find  out  at  the  end 
of  them  that  one  knows  nothing. 


iSSo.]        JOURNAL  OP  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFP.  223 

Tuesday,  November  16.— I  fear  that  I  spoke  of  the  church 
with  some  exaggeration  the  other  day.  I  afterward  felt  some 
compunction  in  the  matter,  and  it  depended  on  the  merest 
chance  whether  I  should  get  up  out  of  bed  or  not,  to  make 
the  amende  honorable.  For  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the 
church  has  been  the  means  of  diffusing  a  truer  knowledge 
of  God,  it  has  greatly  ameliorated  the  condition  of  human 
society,  and  it  has  carried  the  name  of  God  and  civilization 
among  savage  nations.  Without  meaning  any  offense  to 
religion,  I  think  the  work  of  civilization  might  have  been 
carried  on  without  the  aid  of  Catholicism,  but — on  the  whole, 
the  church  has  been  a  useful  institution,  as  the  feudal  system 
was,  and,  like  it  too,  it  has  served,  or  almost  served,  its  turn. 
There  are  too  many  "things  in  Catholicism  that  shock  the 
understanding,  without  being  therefore  odious,  however — 
sacred  things  mixed  up  with  childish  legends.  The  world 
is  too  enlightened  now  for  these  holy  falsehoods  to  be  any 
longer  respected.  But  we  are  passing  through  a  transition 
period,  and  unhappily  the  masses  are  not  yet  sufficiently 
enlightened  to  be  able  to  dispense  with  these  idle  supersti- 
tions, that  bring  contempt  upon  religion  and  conduce  to 
atheism. 

True,  there  are  men  who  are  sincerely  religious,  but  are 
there  not  also  men  who  are  sincere  monarchists? — for  there 
are  people  who  believe  that  monarchical  institutions  are 
necessary  to  the  prosperity  of  certain  countries.  Stay,  I 
did  not  think  of  this  the  other  day,  when  I  said  one  needed 
to  have  the  soul  Of  a  lackey  to  advocate  a  monarchical  form 
of  government. 

Sunday,  December  $.— Dr.  Potain  came  this  morning,  and 
he  wishes  me  to  spend  the  winter  in  the  south,  at  least  until 
March  ;  otherwise  I  shall  not  be  able  to  breathe  at  all  soon, 
or  even  to  leave  my  bed.  Truly  I  am  getting  on  finely ! 
For  the  last  four  years  I  have  done  everything  the  best 


224  JO  URNAL  OP  MARIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.          [1880. 

physicians  have  ordered  me  to  do,  and  I  am  going  from  bad 
to  worse.  I  have  even  laid  violent  hands  on  my  beauty  in 
accordance  with  their  orders.  I  have  painted  the  right  side 
of  my  chest  with  iodine,  and  the  pain  is  still  there.  Can  it 
be  possible  that  the  continual  annoyances  I  suffer  have 
undermined  my  health  ?  And  yet  the  larynx  and  the  bron- 
chial tubes  are  not  generally  affected  by  mental  conditions. 
I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  do  everything  they  tell  me 
to  do  ;  I  avoid  imprudences,  I  wash  myself  with  warm  water 
only,  and  yet  I  grow  no  better. 

Villevieile  told  me  yesterday  that  Tony,  when  he  came 
to  the  studio  on  Saturday  to  correct  the  drawings,  asked  to 
see  our  pictures  for  the  concours,  and  said  of  mine  that  the 
eyes  were  drawn  in  a  peculiar  manner,  but  that  there  were 
some  good  things  about  them,  and  that  the  coloring  was 
charming.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  the  paintings  for  the 
concours,  in  general.  If  I  do  not  receive  the  medal,  I  shall 
at  least  have  made  a  good  study. 

Tuesday,  December  21. — I  have  no  longer  a  buzzing  in 
the  ears,  and  I  can  hear  very  well. 

Wednesday,  December  22. — A  picture  by  a  pupil  of  the 
Rue  Vivienne  was  awarded  the  medal ;  she  is  a  new  pupil — 
a  young  American.  I  received  first  mention. 

Sunday,  December  26. — Potain  wishes  me  to  go  away  at 
once.  I  refused  point-blank,  and  then,  half-laughingly, 
half-seriously,  I  began  to  complain  to  him  of  my  family. 
I  asked  him  if  the  throat  could  be  affected  by  continual  fits 
of  anger,  and  he  said  decidedly  it  could.  I  will  not  go  away. 
It  is  delightful  to  travel,  but  not  in  the  company  of  my 
family,  with  their  tiresome  little  attentions.  I  know  that  I 
should  rule  them  all,  but  they  irritate  me,  and  then, — no, 
no,  no  \ 


i88o.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARlE  BASHKlRTSEFF.  *2$ 

Besides,  I  scarcely  cough  at  all,  now.  Only,  all  this 
makes  me  unhappy.  I  fancy  I  can  no  longer  extricate 
myself  from  it— from  what  ?  I  haven't  the  least  idea  ;  but 
I  cannot  restrain  my  tears.  Do  not  suppose  they  are  tears 
of  disappointment  at  not  being  yet  married — no,  those  are 
not  like  other  tears.  After  all,  perhaps  it  is  that ;  but  I 
don't  think  so. 

And  then,  everything  is  so  gloomy  around  me  and  I  have 
no  outlet  for  my  feelings  ;•  my  poor  aunt  leads  so  isolated  a 
life,  we  scarcely  ever  see  each  other  ;  I  spend  the  evenings 
reading  or  playing. 

I  can  no  longer  either  speak  or  write  of  myself  without 
bursting  into  tears.  I  must  indeed  be  ill.  Ah,  how  foolish 
it  is  to  complain  !  Does  not  death  end  everything  ? 

Why,  then,  notwithstanding  all  our  fine  phrases,  notwith- 
standing our  certainty  that  death  ends  everything,  do  we 
still  persist  in  complaining  of  the  ills  of  life  ? 

I  know  that  my  life,  like  that  of  every  other  human  being, 
will  end  in  death — in  annihilation  ;  I  consider  all  the  circum- 
stances of  existence,  which,  however  flattering  they  may 
seem,  are  mean  and  wretched  enough  in  my  eyes,  and  yet 
I  cannot  resign  myself  to  die  !  Life,  then,  is  a  force,  it  is 
something ;  it  is  not  merely  a  transient  state  of  being,  a 
period  of  time  that  it  matters  little  whether  it  be  spent  in  a 
palace  or  in  a  prison  ?  There  is,  then,  something  beyond, 
some  higher  truth  than  we  are  able  to  give  expression  to  in 
the  foolish  phrases  in  which  we  strive  to  give  utterance  to 
our  thoughts  on  those  subjects  ?  This,  then,  is  life, — not  a 
transient  state,  a  thing  of  no  value, — but  life,  the  dearest 
treasure  we  possess,  all  that  we  possess,  in  fact ! 

People  say  it  is  nothing,  because  it  is  not  eternal.  Ah, 
fools  ! 

Life  is  ourselves  ;  it  belongs  to  us,  it  is  all  that  we  pos- 
sess; how  then  is  it  possible  to  say  it  is  nothing  !  If  life 
be  nothing,  tell  me,  then,  what  something  is. 


226  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  8ASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

Thursday,  December  30. — I  went  to  see  Tony  to-day,  and 
came  home  feeling  somewhat  comforted.  We  talked  a 
great  deal  about  myself  in  a  general  way  ;  he  said  no  one  ever 
expected  great  results  after  only  three'  years'  study  ;  that  I 
want  to  go  too  fast,  that  he  is  convinced  I  shall  succeed, 
and  much  more  to  the  same  effect.  In  short,  I  requested 
him  so  earnestly  to  be  frank  with  me  that  I  think  he  spoke 
as  he  felt.  Besides,  he  has  no  interest  in  trying  to  deceive 
me  ;  and  then,  what  he  said  was  hot  much  after  all.  I  have 
recovered  my  spirits,  however,  in  some  degree,  and  I  am 
ready  to  begin  work  on  my  picture. 

What  a  good,  kind  fellow  Tony  is  !  He  says  the  greatest 
painters  have  begun  to  be  something  only  after  a  dozen 
years  or  so  of  study  ;  that  Bonnat,  after  seven  years  of  study, 
was  still  unknown  ;  that  he  himself  exhibited  nothing  until 
after  eight  years.  Of  course  I  know  all  this,  but,  as  1  had 
counted  on  winning  a  name  before  my  twentieth  year,  you 
can  imagine  what  my  feelings  are. 


1881. 

Saturday,  January  8. — I  have  a  genuine  passion  for  my 
books:  I  arrange  them  on  the  shelves,  I  count  them,  I  gaze 
at  them ;  only  to  look  at  these  shelves  filled  with  old  books 
rejoices  my  heart.  I  stand  back  from  them  to  look  at  them 
admiringly,  as  I  would  at  a  picture.  I  have  only  seven  hun- 
dred volumes,  but  as  they  are  almost  all  large  ones,  they  are 
equivalent  to  a  much  greater  number  of  the  ordinary  size. 

Sunday,  January  9. — Potain  refuses  to  attend  me  any 
longer,  as  I  do  not  obey  his  orders.  Ah,  it  would  please 
me  very  well  to  go  away — to  go  to  Italy,  to  Palermo.  Oh 
for  the  cloudless  sky,  the  blue  sea,  the  beautiful,  tranquil 


iSSi.J         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  227 

nights  of  Italy!  Only  to  think  of  seeing  Italy  again  makes 
me  wild!  It  is  as  if  there  were  some  great  good  in  store  for 
me  which  I  am  not  yet  ready  to  enjoy.  No,  that  is  not 
what  I  want  to  say.  It  is  as  if  some  great  happiness  awaited 
me  which  I  want  to  enjoy  free  from  every  care,  from  every 
anxiety.  When  I  say  to  myself,  "I  will  go  to  Italy,"  I 
think  immediately  afterward,  "No,  not  yet."  I  must 
first  strive,  first  work,  and  then — how  soon  I  cannot  tell — 
complete  repose.  Italy!  I  know  not  wherein  the  charm 
consists,  but  the  effect  this  name  has  upon  me  is  magical, 
marvelous,  indescribable. 

Oh,  yes,  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  go  away!  I  must  be 
very  ill  indeed,  for  Charcot,  Potain,  and  the  others  to  order 
me  away!  I  feel  that  the  air  of  the*  South  would  have  made 
me  well  at  once,  but  the  fault  is  theirs. 

And  why  does  not  mamma  return?  They  say  it  is  unrea- 
sonable on  my  part  to  want  her  to  do  so,  but  the  fact  that 
she  does  not  come  remains  the  same.  Well,  at  last  it  is  all 
over!  I  have  another  year,  perhaps — 1882  is  the  important 
year  I  had  looked  forward  to  in  all  my  childish  dreams.  I 
had  fixed  on  1882  as  the  year  that  was  to  decide  my  des- 
tiny— but  in  what  sense  I  could  not  tell.  By  my  death, 
perhaps.  At  the  studio  to-night  they  dressed  up  the  skele- 
ton to  represent  Louise  Michel,  with  a  red  scarf,  a  cigar- 
ette in  its  mouth,  and  a  palette-knife  for  a  poignard.  In 
me,  too,  is  concealed  a  skeleton ;  to  that  must  we-all  come 
at  last.  Annihilation!  Horrible  thought! 

Thursday,  January  13  (The  Russian  New- Year's  Day).— 
I  still  cough  a  little,  and  my  breathing  is  painful ;  otherwise  I 
am  not  noticeably  changed;  I  am  neither  thin  nor  pale. 
Potain  has  left  off  coming;  my  malady,  he  thinks,  needs 
only  sunshine  and  fresh  air  to  cure  it.  He  is  honest,  Potain 
is;  and  he  does  not  wish  to  fill  me  with  useless  drugs.  But 
I  take  ass's-milk  and  water-wort.  I  am  sure  that  a  winter 


22§         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF. 

spent  in  a  warm  climate  in  the  open  air  would  cure  me, 
but — I  know  better  than  any  one  what  it  is  that  is  the  mat- 
ter with  me;  I  have  always  had  a  delicate  throat,  and  con- 
stant agitation  of  mind  has  contributed  to  make  it  worse. 
After  all  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me  but  the  cough 
and  my  deafness,  and  that  is  of  very  little  consequence,  as 
you  may  see. 

Saturday,  January  15. — To  day  M.  Cot,  who  is  to  take 
turns  with  Tony  at  the  studio,  entered  upon  his  duties.  I 
showed  him  nothing  I  had  done,  though  Julian  had  pointed 
me  out  to  him  as  the  person  he  had  spoken  to  him  about. 
"It  is  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "who  is  going  to  do  this," 
showing  him  the  large  canvas  they  had  so  much  trouble  to 
bring  into  the  studio  yesterday. 

Tony  is  a  man  who  understands  his  business — an  artist 
of  reputation,  an  academician,  a  man  of  recognized  author- 
ity in  his  art,  and  the  lessons  of  such  a  man  are  always  an 
advantage.  It  is  in  painting  as  it  is  in  literature:  first 
learn  the  grammar  of  the  art,  and  your  own  nature  will  tell 
you  whether  you  are  to  write  dramas  or  songs.  So  that  if 
Tony  were  to  be  assassinated  I  would  take  in  his  place 
Lefebvre,  Bonnat,  or  even  Cabanel — which  would  not  be 
pleasant.  Painters  by  temperament,  like  Carolus,  Bastien- 
Lepage,  and  Henner,  compel  you  to  imitate  them  against 
your  will-;  and  they  say  one  learns  only  the  faults  of  those 
one  copies.  And  then  I  would  not  choose  for  my  master  a 
painter  of  single  figures  only.  I  want  to  see  an  artist  sur- 
rounded by  historical  pictures;  the  figures  in  his  picture, 
the  persons,  lend  him  the  support  of  their  names,  and 
would  compel  me  to  listen  to  his  counsels ;  though  there  are 
pictures  of  a  single  figure  which  I  would  prefer  to  half  a 
dozen  pictures  with  half  a  dozen  figures  in  each  of  them. 

The  least  interesting  face  in  the  world  may  become  inter- 
esting under  certain  conditions.  I  have  seen,  in  the  case  of 


i88i.j         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  22$ 

models,  the  most  commonplace  heads  rendered  superb  by 
a  hat,  a  cap,  or  a  piece  of  drapery.  All  this  is  in  order  to 
tell  you  with  becoming  modesty  that  every  evening,  after 
coming  home  from  the  studio,  I  wash  my  hands  and  face, 
put  on  a  white  gown,  and  drape  a  white  muslin  handker- 
chief around  my  head,  after  the  manner  of  the  old  women 
of  Chardin,  or  the  young  girls  of  Greuze.  This  gives  my 
head  a  surprisingly  charming  effect.  To-night  the  handker- 
chief, which  was  rather  large,  was  draped  &  CEgyptiennc, 
and  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  my  face  looked  regal. 
As  a  general  thing  this  word  would  not  be  applicable  to  my 
countenance,  but  the  drapery  wrought  the  miracle.  This 
has  put  me  in  good  spirits. 

I  have  fallen  into  this  habit  of  late.  To  remain  with  my 
head  uncovered  in  the  evening  makes  me  uncomfortable, 
and  my  "sorrowful  thoughts"  like  to  be  under  shelter.  I 
fancy  myself  more  at  home,  thus — more  at  my  ease,  as  it 
were. 

I  have  not  learned  to  understand  how  one  can  sacrifice 
one's  life  for  the  beloved  object— for  a  mortal  like  one's 
self — and  for  love  of  him. 

But  I  can  understand  how  one  might  suffer  tortures  and 
death  itself  for  a  principle— for  liberty,  for  anything  that 
could  serve  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  humanity. 

For  my  part  I  would  be  as  ready  to  defend  all  these  fine 
things  in  France  as  in  Russia;  one's  country  comes  after 
humanity;  after  all,  there  are  between  different  nations  but 
shades  of  differences;  and  I  am  for  simplicity  and  broad- 
ness of  view  in  treating  every  question. 

I  am  not  easily  carried  away  by  my  feelings  on  this  point; 
I  am  neither  a  Louise  Michel  nor  a  nihilist,— not  at  all;  but 
if  I  thought  liberty  were  seriously  menaced,  I  should  be  the 
first  to  take  up  arms  in  her  defense. 

\rnlnesJa\\  January  =6.— After  coming  home  from  the 


230  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASttKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

studio  on  Tuesday  I  grew  feverish;  and  I  sat  in  the  dark 
in  my  arm-chair,  shivering  and  half-asleep  until  seven 
o'clock.  I  kept  my  picture  constantly  before  my  eyes,  as 
has  been  the  case  every  night  during  the  last  week. 

As  I  had  taken  no  nourishment  during  the  day  except  a 
little  milk,  the  night  was  still  worse.  I  could  not  sleep,  for  I 
had  set  my  alarm-clock,  and  it  wakened  me;  but  the  pic- 
ture was  still  before  me,  and  I  working  on  it  in  imagina- 
tion. I  did  the  opposite  of  everything  I  ought  to  have 
done,  however,  impelled  by  an  irresistible  desire  to  efface 
all  that  was  well  done.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  remain 
quiet:  I  tried  to  convince  myself  it  was  but  a  dream.  In 
vain.  "Is  this,  then,  the  delirium  of  fever?"  I  asked  my- 
self. I  think  there  was  something  of  that  in  it.  I  know 
now  what  it  meant,  and  I  should  not  regret  it,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  fatigued  feeling  I  have — more  especially  in  my 
limbs. 

But  the  strangest  part  of  it  was  that,  in  my  delirium, 
I  fancied  I  was  waiting  for  Julian  to  give  me  his  advice 
concerning  one  of  the  figures  I  had  changed. 

He  came  yesterday  and  found  that  everything  I  had  done 
was  wrong;  before  my  dream  I  had  effaced  all  that  was 
good  in  the  picture. 

And  last  night,  by  a  curious  coincidence,  I  could  hear 
perfectly  well. 

I  feel  bruised  all  over. 

Thursday,  February  3. — I  have  now  before  my  eyes  the 
portrait  of  my  father  and  mother,  taken  just  before  they 
were  married.  I  have  hung  them  up  as  "documentary 
evidence."  According  to  Zola  and  other  philosophers  of 
greater  fame,  it  is  necessary  to  know  the  cause  if  we 
would  understand  the  effects.  My  mother  at  the  time  of 
my  birth  was  young  and  full  of  health,  and  exceedingly 
beautiful,  with  brown  hair,  brown  eyes,  and  a  dazzling 


l88i.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIR TSEFF.  231 

complexion  ;  my  father  was  fair,  pale,  delicate  in  health, 
and  was  himself  the  son  of  a  robust  father  and  a  sickly 
mother,  who  died  young,  leaving  four  daughters,  all  more 
or  less  deformed  from  their  birth.  Grandpapa  and  grand- 
mamma were  endowed  with  vigorous  constitutions,  and 
they  had  nine  children,  all  of  them  healthy  and  robust,  and 
some  of  them,  mamma  and  Etienne  for  instance,  handsome. 

The  sickly  father  of  our  illustrious  subject  has  become 
strong  and  healthy,  and  the  mother,  blooming  with  health 
in  her  youth,  has  become  feeble  and  nervous,  thanks  to  the 
horrible  existence  she  has  been  compelled  to  lead. 

I  finished  "  L'Assommoir"  the  day  before  yesterday.  I 
was  so  forcibly  impressed  with  the  truth  of  the  book  that 
it  almost  made  me  sick.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  lived  among 
those  people  and  talked  with  them. 

Monday,  February  7. — My  picture,  set  aside  for  a  time  on 
account  of  a  figure  I  could  not  get  to  my  liking,  goes  for- 
ward again.  I  feel  as  light  as  a  feather. 

My  favorite  Bastien-Lepage  has  exhibited  a  portrait  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  in  the  costume  of  Henry  IV.,  with  the 
Thames  and  the  English  fleet  in  the  background.  The  back- 
ground has  the  same  tone  as  the  "  Joconde."  The  face  is 
that  of  a  sot ;  it  has  altogether  the  air  of  a  Holbein, — it  might 
be  taken  for  one.  I  don't  like  that.  Why  imitate  the  style 
of  another? 

Ah,  if  I  could  only  paint  like  Carolus  Duran  !  This  is 
the  first  time  I  have  seen  anything  I  thought  worth  covet- 
ing— anything  I  should  like  to  own,  myself,  in  the  way  of 
painting.  After  that  everything  else  seemed  to  me  mean, 
dry,  and  daubed. 

Saturday,  February  12.— At  noon  to-day  the  servant  came 
running  into  the  studio,  her  face  flushed  with  excitement. 
M.  Julian  has  received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 


232  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHtflRTSEFF. 

Every  one  was  rejoiced,  and  A.  Neuve"gliss  and  I  ran  to 
order  a  splendid  basket  of  flowers,  with  a  large  red  bow,  at 
Vaillant-Roseau's.  Vaillant-Roseau  is  not  an  ordinary 
florist,  he  is  an  artist — 150  francs  was  not  too  dear. 

Villevielle  returned  at  three  for  the  express  purpose  of 
felicitating  the  master.  Julian  wore  his  ribbon,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  per- 
fectly happy  man.  He  declared  he  was  this.  "There  may 
be  people  who  have  still  something  to  wish  for,"  he  said  ; 
"as  for  me  I  have  everything  I  desire." 

Then  Villevielle  and  I  went  downstairs  to  the  studio  of 
the  director  to  see  the  basket ;  there  were  rejoicings,  felici- 
tations, and  even  a  little  emotion.  He  spoke  to  us  of  his 
old  mother,  for  whom  he  feared  the  news  might  be  too 
much  ;  and  then  of  an  old  uncle  who  would  cry  like  a  child, 
he  said,  when  he  heard  it. 

"  Only  think — a  little  village  down  yonder  !  I  imagine 
what  an  effect  it  will  have — a  poor  little  peasant-boy  who 
came  to  Paris  without  a  sou — Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  !  " 

Sunday,  February  13. — I  have  just  received  a  very  affec- 
tionate letter  from  mamma  ;  here  it  is  : 

"  GRAND  HOTEL,  KARKOFF,  January  27. 

My  adored  angel,  my  cherished  child  Moussia,  if  you  but 
knew  how  unhappy  1  am  without  you,  especially  as  I  am 
uneasy  on  account  of  your  health,  and  how  I  long  to  go  to 
you  at  tliQ  earliest  possible  moment  ! 

"  My  pride,  my  glory,  my  happiness,  my  joy  !  If  you 
could  imagine  the  sufferings  I  endure  without  you  !  Your 
letter  to  Mme.  Anitskoff  is  before  me  ;  I  read  it  over  and 
over  again  like  a  lover,  and  I  water  it  with  my  tears.  I  kiss 
your  little  hands  and  your  little  feet,  and  I  pray  the  good 
God  that  I  may  soon  be  able  to  do  so  in  reality. 

"  I  tenderly  embrace  our  dear  aunt. 

"  M.  B." 


i88i.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASUKIRTSEW,  233 

Monday,  February  14.— The  head  in  Alice  Brisbane's 
portrait  was  finished  in  two  hours,  and  Julian  told  me  not 
to  retouch  it.  And  at  other  times  one  spends  a  week  in 
making  a  daub.  A  part  of  the  bodice  and  of  the  skirt  is 
also  painted  in. 

Thursday,  March  3. — I  am  very  ill.  I  have  a  violent 
cough,  I  breathe  with  difficulty,  and  there  is  an  ominous 
sound  in  my  throat.  I  believe  this  is  what  they  call  laryn- 
geal  phthisis. 

I  opened  the  New  Testament  lately,  a  thing  I  had  not 
done  for  some  time  past ;  and  on  two  different  occasions, 
within  a  few  days  of  each  other,  I  was  struck  by  the  appo- 
siteness  to  my  thought  of  the  passage  at  which  I  chanced 
to  open.  I  have  begun  again  to  pray  to  Jesus  ;  I  have 
returned  to  the  Virgin,  and  to  a  belief  in  miracles,  after 
having  been  a  deist,  and,  for  a  short  time,  even  an  atheist. 
But  the  religion  of  Christ,  as  He  taught  it,  bears  little 
resemblance  either  to  your  Catholicism  or  to  our  orthodoxy, 
the  rules  of  which  I  do  not  observe,  limiting  myself  to  fol- 
lowing the  precepts  of  Christ,  and  not  concerning  myself 
about  allegories  which  have  been  taken  in  a  literal  sense, 
nor  with  the  superstitions  and  other  absurdities  intro- 
duced into  religion  later  on,  by  men,  from  political  or  other 
motives. 

Friday.— \  have  finished  my  picture,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  final  touches. 

Saturday,  March  19.— Julian  cries  out  that  he  is  furious 
with  himself  for  having  given  me  the  subject  he  did  for  my 
first  picture.  "  Ah,  if  it  were  only  your  second,"  he  says. 
"  Ah,  well,"  I  answered,  "  let  us.  leave  it  then  for  next 
year." 

Thereupon  he  looked  at  me  with  eyes  shining  with  hope 


234  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [iSSi. 

at  finding  me  capable  of  renouncing  the  vain  satisfaction  of 
exhibiting  an  unfinished  and  mediocre  picture.  He  would 
be  delighted  if  I  renounced  it ;  and  so  should  I  ;  but  the 
others  ? — my  friends  ?  They  would  say  my  work  had  been 
thought  too  ill  of  by  the  professors ;  that  I  was  not  able  to 
execute  a  picture  ;  in  short,  that  my  picture  was  rejected  at 
the  Salon. 

I  have  spoken  seriously  to  Julian,  and  explained  my  feel- 
ings to  him.  He  comprehends  the  state  of  things  very  well, 
and  so  do  I.  He  says  I  shall  be  honorably  received,  and 
achieve  even  a  certain  measure  of  success  ;  but  this  is  not 
what  we  have  dreamed  of.  The  men  below  will  not  come 
and  3tand  before  my  picture,  and  say,  "  What !  is  it  a  woman 
who  has  painted  that  ?  "  Finally,  to  save  my  pride,  I  pro- 
posed to  make  it  appear  as  if  an  accident  had  happened  to 
the  picture  ;  but  he  would  not  consent.  He  had  expected 
a  success  ;  he  confesses  that  he  is  not  altogether  satisfied, 
but  that  it  may  do.  And  under  these  conditions  I  exhibit  ! 

Well,  it  is  done  with,  and  I  am  rid  of  my  picture,  but 
how  anxious  I  shall  be  until  the  first  of  May  is  over  !  If  I 
only  have  a  good  number  ! 

Thursday. — I  have  just  found  a  little  jar  of  tar  under  my 
bed.  It  was  placed  there  by  Rosalie  to  benefit  my  health. 
And  by  the  advice  of  a  fortune-teller !  My  family  thought 
this  mark  of  devotion  on  the  part  of  a  servant  very  touch- 
ing ;  mamma  was  very  much  affected  ;  but  I  poured  a  jug 
of  water  over  the  carpet  under  the  bed,  broke  a  pane  of 
glass,  and  went  to  sleep  in  my  study  through  rage. 

Tuesday,  March  29. — I  learned  at  the  studio  thatBreslau's 
picture  was  accepted,  and  I  have  heard  nothing  of  mine. 
I  painted  until  noon,  and  then  went  for  a  drive,  that  appeared 
to  me  interminably  long. 

Wednesday,  March  30. — I  pretended  to  be  asleep  until 


iSSi.]          JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKlRTSl.l-]-.  235 

ten  o'clock,  so  as  not  to  go  to  the  studio,  and  I  am  very 
unhappy. 

Friday,  April  i. — April-fooling  apart,  I  am  to  be  queen. 
Julian  came  himself  at  midnight  last  night  to  tell  me  so, 
after  leaving  Lefebvre's.  Bojidar  went  to  find  out  from 
Tidiere,  one  of  the  young  men  downstairs,  without  my 
asking  him,  and  declares  that  I  am  No.  2.  This  seems  to 
me  too  much  to  expect. 

Sunday,  April  3. — Never  have  I  heard  Patti  sing  with 
greater  spirit  than  last  night.  Her  voice  had  such  power, 
such  freshness,  such  brilliancy  !  Heavens  !  what  a  beauti- 
ful voice  I  had  !  It  was  powerful,  dramatic,  entrancing  ! 
It  made  a  chill  run  down  one's  back  to  hear  it.  And  now, 
not  even  the  memory  of  it  left ! 

Shall  I  never  recover  it,  then  ?  I  am  young  ;  it  may  be 
possible. 

Patti  does  not  touch  the  heart,  but  she  can  bring  tears  of 
enthusiasm  to  the  eyes.  To  listen  to  her  voice  reminds 
one  of  an  exhibition  of  fireworks.  In  one  passage,  last 
night,  her  notes  were  so  pure,  so  brilliant,  so  bird-like,  that 
I  was  completely  carried  away. 

Tuesday,  April  5  .—A  great  surprise  !  My  father  is  here  ! 
They  came  to  the  studio  for  me,  and  when  I  went  home  I 
found  him  in  the  dining-room  with  mamma,  who  paid  him 
a  thousand  little  attentions.  Dina  and  Saint-Amand,  who 
were  there  also,  were  charmed  with  the  spectacle  of  this 
conjugal  happiness. 

Wednesday,  April  6.— I  was  delayed  until  nine  by  my 
father,  who  .insisted  upon  it  that  I  should  not  work  to-day  ; 
but  I  am  too  much  interested  in  my  torso  for  that,  and  I 
shall  not  see  the  august  family  again  until  dinner-time, 


236  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BA SHKIR TSEFF.          [1881. 

after  which  they  go  to  the  theater  and  I  remain  at  home 
alone. 

My  father  cannot  conceive  how  one  can  be  an  artist,  or  how 
being  one  can  redound  to  one's  credit.  I  sometimes  think 
he  only  pretends  to  have  such  ideas. 

Sunday,  May  i. — Alexis  came  early;  he  had  a  ticket 
admitting  two  persons,. so  that,  as  I  have  one  also,  we  can 
all  four  go — Monsieur,  Madame,  Alexis,  and  I.  - 1  am  not 
too  well  pleased  with  my  dress — a  costume  of  dark-gray 
wool,  and  a  handsome,  but  rather  commonplace,  black  hat. 
We  found  my  picture  at  once  ;  it  is  in  the  first  salon — to  the 
left  of  the  salon  d'honneur,  in  the  second  row.  I  am 
delighted  with  the  place,  and  very  much  surprised  to  see 
the  picture  look  so  well.  Not  that  it  looks  well,  but  I 
expected  to  see  it  look  frightful,  and  it  is  not  bad. 

Through  an  error,  however,  they  have  omitted  my  name 
in  the  catalogue.  (I  have  called  their  attention  to  it,  and  it 
will  be  rectified.)  One  cannot  see  the  pictures  very  well  on 
the  first  day.  One  wants  to  see  everything  at  once.  Alexis 
and  I  left  the  others  from  time  to  time,  to  look  around  a 
little  ;  then  we  lost  sight  of  them  entirely,  and  I  took  his 
arm,  for  I  do  as  I  choose  ;  I  come  and  go  without  fear  of  any 
one.  We  met  a  crowd  of  acquaintances,  and  I  received  a 
great  many  fine  compliments  that  did  not  seem  as  if  they 
were  dragged  in  by  the  hair.  This  is  but  natural ;  these 
people,  who  understand  nothing  about  the  matter,  see  a 
large  picture  with  a  good  many  figures  in  it,  and  they  think 
it  is  everything  it  should  be. 

A  week  ago  I  gave  a  thousand  francs  to  be  distributed 
among  the  poor.  No  one  knows  of  this.  I  went  to  the 
principal  office,  and  quickly  slipped  away  when  I  had  finished 
the  business  that  brought  me,  without  waiting  for  thanks. 
The  director  must  have  thought  I  stole  the  money,  in  order 
to  give  it  away.  Heaven  grant  me  a  return  for  my  money  j 


iSSi.]         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BA SUKIRTS1: /•/•:  237 

Abbema,  who  was  walking  through  the  rooms  with 
Bojidar,  sent  me  word  that  he  was  pleased  with  my  picture  ; 
he  says  that  it  is  strong,  full  of  spirit,  etc.  A  few  moments 
afterward  we  met  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  cele- 
brated friend  of  Sarah  Bernhardt.  She  is  a  very  good  girl 
and  I  value  her  praises. 

We  breakfasted  in  the  building ;  altogether  we  spent  six 
hours  with  Art.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  the  pictures.  I  will 
only  say  that  I  think  highly  of  Breslau's  picture  ;  it  has 
great  beauties,  but  the  drawing  is  bad,  and  the  colors  too 
thickly  laid  on  in  places.  And  then,  such  fingers,  like  the 
claws  of  a  bird  !  Such  noses,  with  slits  for  nostrils  !  Such 
nails  !  And  such  stiffness  and  heaviness  in  the  execution  ! 
In  short,  the  picture  is  of  the  impressionist  school  and 
Bastien-Lepage  is  the  master  she  copies. 

Where  does  one  see  such  colors  and  such  perspective  in 
nature  ? 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  however,  it  possesses  beauties  ; 
and  those  three  heads,  placed  between  the  portrait  of  Wolff 
and  the  "  Mendicant  "  of  Bastien-Lepage,  attract  a  good 
deal  of  attention. 

Friday,  May  6. — I  went  this  morning  to  the  Salon,  where 
I  met  Julian,  who  made  me  acquainted  with  Lefebvre. 
The  latter  said  to  me  that  my  picture  possessed  great  merit. 
At  home  here  they  are  always  talking  of  the  changes  that 
are  to  take  place.  They  all  irritate  me.  My  .father's  ideas 
are  absurd  at  times.  He  does  not  himself  think  so,  but  he 
persists  in  speaking  as  if  it  were  of  the  greatest  importance 
that  I  should  consent  to  spend  the  summer  in  Russia. 
"  People  will  see  then,"  he  says,  "  that  you  do  not  live 
apart  from  your  family." 

Have  I  ever  lived  apart  from  them  ?  Well,  I  shall  wait 
for  whatever  chance  may  bring  ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  will 
not  travel.  I  shall  remain  tranquilly  (!)  here,  and  I  can 


238  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

then  be  miserable  at  my  ease  in  my  arm-chair,  where,  at 
least,  I  am  physically  comfortable. 

Oh,  this  dreadful  lassitude  !  Is  it  natural  to  feel  thus  at 
my  age  ? 

And  this  it  is  that  drives  me  to  despair.  If  I  should 
ever  meet  with  any  good  fortune  would  I  have  the  capacity 
to  enjoy  it  ?  Could  I  avail  myself  of  any  opportunity  that 
might  present  itself  ?  I  think  at  times  I  can  no  longer  see 
as  well  as  other  people — though  still  well  enough. 

In  the  evenings  when  I  am  tired  out  and  half  asleep, 
divine  harmonies  float  through  my  brain  ;  they  rise  and 
fall,  like  the  strains  of  an  orchestra,  but  independent  of  my 
volition. 

Saturday,  May  7. — My  father  wishes  to  leave  Paris  to- 
morrow, and  mamma  is  to  accompany  him.  This  will  un- 
settle everything. 

And  I,  am  I  to  accompany  them  ?  I  could  sketch  there 
in  the  open  air  and  return  in  time  for  Biarritz. 

On  the  other  hand,  they  say  Ems  would  benefit  me.  Ah, 
everything  is  indifferent  to  me.  There  is  nothing  left  me 
to  hope  for. 

Sunday,  May  8. — I  am  almost  glad  to  see  that  my  health 
is  giving  way,  since  Heaven  has  denied  me  happiness. 

But  when  it  is  completely  ruined,  everything  will  perhaps 
change,  and  then  it  will  be  too  late. 

Every  one  for  himself — that  is  true  ;  but  my  family  pre- 
tend to  love  me  so  much,  and  they  do  nothing  for  me.  I 
am  nothing  now  ;  there  seems  to  be  a  veil  between  me  and 
the  rest  of  the  world.  If  one  only  knew  what  there  is 
beyond — but  we  do  not  ;  and  then,  it  is  precisely  this  feel- 
ing of  curiosity  I  have  about  it  that  makes  the  thought  of 
death  less  terrible  to  me. 

I  cry  out  a  dozen  times  a  day  that  I  want  to  die  ;    but 


iSSi.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  239 

that  is  only  a  form  of  despair.  One  says  to  one's-self,  "  I 
desire  to  die,"  but  it  is  not  true  ;  it  is  only  another  way  of 
saying  that  life  is  unendurable  ;  one  always,  and  in  every 
case,  desires  to  live,  especially  at  my  age.  Besides,  there  is 
no  need  to  grieve  about  me.  I  have  life  enough  still  to 
last  for  some  time  longer.  No  one  is  to  be  blamed  in  the 
matter ;  it  is  God  who  wills  it  so. 

Sunday,  May  15. — Nothwithstanding  everything — in  a 
word,  I  am  to  go  to  Russia  with  them,  if  they  will  wait  a 
week  for  me.  I  should  find  it  unendurable  to  be  present  at 
the  distribution  of  prizes.  This  is  a  very  great  chagrin  that 
no  one  knows  anything  about  except  Julian  ;  and  I  shall 
leave  Paris  on  account  of  it.  I  went  incognito  to  consult  a 

famous  doctor,  C .  I  shall  never  recover  my  hearing, 

he  says.  The  pleura  of  the  right  lung  is  diseased,  and  has 
been  so  for  some  time  ;  and  the  throat  is  in  a  very  bad 
state.  I  asked  him  about  all  this  in  such  a  way  that,  after 
making  a  careful  examination,  he  was  obliged  to  tell  me 
the  truth. 

It  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  go  to  Allevard,  and  under- 
go  a  course  of  treatment.  Well,  I  will  do  so  on  my  return 
from  Russia  ;  and  from  there  I  will  go  to  Biarritz.  I  will 
go  on  with  Tny  painting  in  the  country  ;  I  will  sketch  in  the 
open  air,  and  that  will  benefit  my  health.  I  write  all  this 
filled  with  rage. 

But  here  in  the  house  the  situation  is  enough  to  make 
one  weep.  Mamma  in  despair,  on  the  one  side,  at  having  to 
go,  and  I  unwilling  to  go  with  her,  and  equally  unwilling 
that  my  aunt  should  be  obliged,  in  accordance  with  the  non- 
sensical notions  of  the  family,  to  stay  here  to  take  care 
of  me. 

My  strength  is  exhausted.  I  remain  the  whole  day  with- 
out opening  my  lips,  so  that  I  may  not  have  to  burst  into 
tears.  I  feel  suffocating ;  there  is  a  constant  buzzing  in  my 


240  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [iSSi. 

ears,  and  I  have  a  curious  sensation,  as  if  my  bones  were 
breaking  through  the  flesh,  and  this  were  melting  away. 
And  my  poor  aunt,  who  wants  me  to  be  happy,  and  to  talk 
to  her  and  to  stay  here  with  her  !  I  repeat  it,  my  strength 
is  exhausted,  I  have  no  faith  in  anything  good  happening, 
and  I  think  everything  evil  is  possible.  I  desire  neither  to 
go. nor  to  stay,  but  I  think  that  if  I  were  to  go  they  would 
not  remain  there  so  long.  Besides — I  cannot  say  ;  it  is  the 
thought  of  Breslau's  receiving  the  medal  that  makes  me 
wish  to  go.  Ah,  I  am  unlucky  in  everything  !  I  must 
then  die  miserably — I  who  had  so  much  faith  in  the  future  ; 
who  prayed  so  fervently.  Well,  after  the  most  moving 
arguments  on  all  sides,  our  departure  has  been  fixed  for 
Saturday. 

Friday,  May  20. — In  two  words,  I  have  again  begun  to 
hesitate  about  going  to  Russia.  Potain  came  to  see  me 
to-day,  and  I  count  on  his  aid  to  be  able  to  remain  without 
causing  my  father  too  much  vexation.  Well,  there  is  a  pos- 
sibility of  my  not  going. 

But  it  is  Bojidar  who  has  given  me  the  fatal  blow.  The 
committee  made  its  examination  of  the  pictures  in  the  Salon 
to-day,  and  admired  Breslau's  picture  greatly!  My  tears, 
which  had  been  already  flowing,  fell  in  torrents  at  this  news. 
My  father  and  mother  think  it  is  what  Potain  has  said  that 
is  troubling  me,  and  I  cannot  tell  them  the  truth;  but  I 
shed  tears  enough  for  both  causes. 

After  all  Potain  has  said  very  little  that  is  new,  and  he  has 
made  it  possible  for  me  to  remain  here  if  I  wish  to  do  so. 
But  Breslau's  picture  is  the  thing!  I  have  asked  Potain  to 
represent  my  condition  to  my  family  as  worse  than  it  is,  and 
to  say  to  them  that  my  right  lung  is  affected,  so  that  my 
father  may  not  be  vexed  at  my  remaining  here. 

Monday,   May  23. — Finally  everything  was   packed  up 


iSSi.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARtE  BASIfA'IKTSEFf.  24! 

and  we  went  to  the  station.  Then,  at  the  moment  of  de- 
parture, my  hesitation  communicated  itself  to  the  others ;  I 
began  to  cry,  and  mamma  with  me,  and  then  Dina  and  my 
aunt ;  and  my  father  asked  what  was  to  be  done.  I  re- 
sponded by  tears;  the  bell  rang;  we  ran  to  the  cars,  in 
which  no  seat  had  been  secured  for  me,  and  they  entered 
an  ordinary  compartment  (which  I  objected  to  doing).  I 
was  going  to  follow  them,  but  the  door  was  already  closed, 
as  the  compartment  was  full,  and  they  went  away  without 
our  even  saying  good-by.  It  is  all  very  well  for  people  of 
the  same  family  to  abuse  one  another,  and  say  they  detest 
one  another,  but  when  it  comes  to  parting  they  think  of 
those  things  no  longer.  I  cried  at  the  thought  of  going 
with  them,  I  cry  now  because  I  am  left  behind.  I  scarcely 
think  at  all  of  Breslau.  But,  after  all,  I  shall  be  able  to 
take  better  care  of  my  health  here,  and  then  I  shall  not 
lose  time. 

Tuesday,  May  24. — I  am  in  despair  at  not  having  gone 
with  the  others.  ...  I  shall  telegraph  to  them  to  Berlin  to 
wait  for  me  there. 

BERLIN,  Wednesday,  May  25.— Accordingly  I  left  Paris 
yesterday.  •  Before  leaving  I  went  to  see  Tony,  who  is  very 
ill,  and  for  whom  I  left  a  letter  of  thanks,  and  to  Julian's; 
he  was  not  at  home,  which  was  as  well  perhaps,  as  he  might 
have  made  me  change  my  mind  and  remain,  and  it  was  nec- 
essary for  me  to  go.  For  the  last  week  no  one  of  the  fam- 
ily dared  look  at  the  others  for  fear  of  bursting  into  tears! 
And  when  I  was  left  alone  I  wept  constantly,  thinking,  at 
the  same  time,'how  cruel  this  was  for  my  aunt.  She  must 
have  seen,  however,  that  I  also  wept  when  the  question  was 
one  of  leaving  her.  She  thinks  I  do  not  care  for  her  at  all, 
and  when  I  consider  what  a  self-sacrificing  life  this  heroic 
creature  has  led,  I  am  melted  to  tears.  She  has  not  even 


•-•-  JOUXBAL  OF  MAMIE  &ASHKl*TSEfF.  -•: 


of  bemg  loved  as  a  good  aant!     Bat  then 
I  love  better.     la  fine,  I  am  at  Bafin;  my 

:  -  :     -.    -  :     -  7-7   ::  :  r .-.  f-.i:  :  T_    ::    ::  -•-:   : .  t    IT  _    v  - 
;      :--.-.  ::-r;-.t: 
What  is  the  cammmnoa  of  honor  is  my  deafness;  dikes 

nudhave  luxituL.     Inowdiead 


:      '  _   i        •    -7    :  -  -  -7  ;        :---:::•:    7    ::  -7    7^:7- 

""     :      ~      .  .  "'•;":":"'::    ::•:.:::    .  -    _  -.  '  -   :     . 

:  -   :    •  -  .  ••  .-  -:    •    :-  :.7      -  -  -.-.  ~  :  ::   i  7    :    ::    --7 

ipodd  wdd  be  at  viy  coBiiurad  iff  I  cooald  onhr  bear  as 
btfiuic.    Jka>d  in  •T  diicj'm   Ikis  happens  oahr  once  in  a 

thi  jhj"^**"^  I 

,""  they  wvld  say;  " 

....     ...-._  _.._._v 


Aad  it  has  happened  precisely  to  me.    Yon 
:  "   :  ~~    "  •          :  -  ~  -  ".  -     '•  '  '  :  .~.  :   '-  :  :  "  -  :  : 

-     •-    .....  it::     --   r    :  •:   .  _- 
;so  midk  tdbose  who  have  ahravs  kno«m 
wish  those  whoa  I  seidoH  see;  bit  at  the  stvdio,  for 

Ihey  kamr  it  ifceie. 

how  it  affects  Ac  iBfcflE0CDCc!     How  is  it  pnrrahlr 
:  \  :  ~i  -  "    :-t  :  :   *:  :~7  1   :  :  f   -.    • 
>-_     :_.  _r   :    7: 


(Bear  Km),  Ttmn&y*  M*y  26.— I  •ceded  to 
fake  thk  long  JIMIBJJ,  «nMhaig  is  to  be  seen  OR  an j  side 
brt  ••BKBoe  pboatSi.  The  view  is  grand:  I  am  «l*^»gpi'^f 

^    - '    - '  -    •••-.-  •  -•-     -   -      --------.    ----:-      •-.'-     .     -  :  - 

a  MJUL  of  n^Eootj;  vhuL  there  aie  villages  or  forests  to  be 
^PE*  *  «Nji«yv  tfc^  ^ftBrt;     What  chauBs  me  O|>f t  Lilly  hcic 

the  lowest  of  them.     Tbe  people  of  the  castom-lMmse  chat 
wkh  yoa  as  if  they  weir  acqwahrtrd  with  yam.    Bot  I  hare 

-  . '  -    -  .  ' :     --•--..    '     ••  -   : .  •-    .-_ 


:  • :  JOURNAL  OF  ItAKIE  BASHfltTSEFF.  243 


are  still  thirty  before  me.    These  HiuiMir^.  make  one  dizzy 
to  think  of. 


GAVBQXZT,  £ke£rr,  J/*p  29.  —  Last  night  we  reached 
Poltava, 

Paul  has  giown  frightfully  stout. 

This  morning  Kapuanrnko,  Wolkovisky,  and  some  others 
came  to  see  us.  My  father  is  very  happy,  bat  a  htde 
troubled  at  seeing  the  melancholy  effect  this  country  pro- 
duces  on  me  after  five  years  of  absence.  I  do  not  seek  to 
conceal  this  feeling,  and  now  that  I  am  more  familiar  with  my 
father  I  no  longer  try  to  humor  him. 

At  dinner  a  dish  dicaaed  with  onions  mas  served.  I  got 
up  and  left  the  dining-room;  die  Princess  and  Paul's  wife 
were  surprised.  Paul's  wife  is  quite  pretty  ;  she  has  superb 
Mack  hair,  a  fine  complexioe,  and  not  a  bad  figure;  she  is 
.  ::.- 


er,  Jmmt  4.— Julian  writes  that  Tony  R_  F.  took 
cold  while  driving  home  from  his  mother's  in  an  open  car- 
riage, and  that  he  has  been  between  fife  and  death  ever 
He  mourns  for  him  as  if  he  were  already  dead. 


.Skmfar,  Jmmt  5.— I  telegraphed  to  Juhan  yesterday  for 
news  about  Tony.    I  am  extremely  anxious  on  his 


Jftwfer,  Jmmt  6  (M*y  25).— Tony  is  out  of  danger! 
am  delighted.  Rosalie  burst  into  tears  at  the  news;  she 
said  that  if  he  had  died,  it  would  certainly  have  made  me 
fflL  She  exaggerates  a  htde,  but— she  is  a  good  girt  A 
letter  from  Juhan,  containing  die  good  news,  arrived  at  me 
:  -.  :-..-..- 1  ::• 


peasant-girl,  life-size;  she  stands  fcaaing  against  a  hedge  of 
intet  woven  branches. 


244  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  SAStiKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

Monday,  June  27  (15). — I  have  sketched  out  one  of  my 
pictures  for  the  Salon.  I  am  delighted  with  the  subject;  it 
is  all  planned  out,  and  I  am  burning  with  impatience  to 
begin. 

Wednesday,  July  6  (June  24). — I  have  finished  my  pic- 
ture: it  is  better  than  anything  I  had  done  so  far;  the  head, 
which  I  have  done  over  three  times,  is  especially  good. 

Monday. — Nini,  her  sister,  and  Dina  came  for  me,  where 
I  was  working  out  of  doors,  to  take  me  back  with  them  to 
the  house.  Some  one  chanced  to  allude  to  the  superstition 
that  the  breaking  of  a  mirror  portends  misfortune.  This 
reminded  me  that  on  one  or  two  occasions  I  have  found 
three  candles  together  in  my  room.  Does  this  portend  that 
I  am  going  to  die?  There  are  times  when  the  thought  of 
death  turns  me  cold.  But  I  have  less  fear  when  I  let  my 
mind  dwell  upon  God,  though  this  does  not  reconcile  me  to 
the  thought  of  death.  Or  perhaps  it  means  that  I  shall 
become  blind;  but  that  would  be  the  same  thing  as  to  die, 
for  I  should  then  kill  myself.  What  shall  we  find  on  the 
other  side,  though?  But  what  does  it  matter?  At  least  we 
escape  from  our  present  sorrows.  Or  perhaps  I  shall  lose 
my  hearing  completely ;  perhaps  I  shall  grow  deaf.  The 
very  thought  of  this  word,  that  it  scorches  my  pen  to  write, 
enrages  me.  My  God — but  I  cannot  now  even  pray  as  for- 
merly. What  if  it  should  portend  the  death  of  a  near  rela- 
tion— of  my  father,  for  instance?  Or  of  mamma?  I  should 
never  be  able  to  console  myself,  in  that  case,  for  the  many 
unkind  words  I  have  spoken  to  her. 

Doubtless  what  most  displeases  God  with  me  is  that  I 
take  note  of  all  the  inward  movements  of  my  soul,  thinking, 
involuntarily,  that  such  a  thought  will  be  set  down  to  my 
credit,  such  another  to  my  discredit.  For,  from  the  moment 
in  which  we  recognize  a  thought  to  be  good,  all  the  merit 


1 83 1.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  24$ 

of  it  is  lost.  If  I  have  some  generous,  or  noble,  or  pious 
impulse,  I  am  immediately  conscious  of  it ;  as  a  consequence 
I  involuntarily  experience  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  on 
account  of  the  benefit  that  must  accrue  to  my  soul  from 
this.  And  because  of  these  thoughts  the  merit  of  the 
action  resulting  from  this  impulse  is  lost.  Thus,  a  moment 
since  it  occurred  to  me  to  go  downstairs  and  throw  myself 
into  mamma's  arms,  and  ask  her  to  forgive  me  for  all  my 
past  unkindness  to  her,  and  naturally  the  thought  that  fol- 
lowed this  impulse  was  favorable  to  myself,  and  all  the 
merit  of  it  was  at  an  end.  I  felt  afterward  that  to  have 
carried  out  my  intention  would  not  have  benefited  me  much, 
for  that,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  should  have  done  it  a  little 
cavalierly,  or  awkwardly  ;  for  a  genuine,  serious  expansion 
of  feeling  between  us  would  not  be  possible ;  she  has 
always  seen  me  turn  everything  into  ridicule ;  to  do  any- 
thing else  would  not  seem  natural  in  me ;  she  would  think 
I  was  acting  a  part. 

Monday,  July  n. — To-day  is  the  feast  of  St.  Paul.  I 
have  on  a  ravishing  gown  ;  Dina,  too,  looks  charming.  I 
laughed  and  chatted  awhile  with  Lihopay  and  Micha,  as 
amiably  as  if  it  amused  me.  The  others  listened  to  our 
witty  sayings.  Then  we  danced,  papa  and  mamma  together, 
having  Paul  and  his  wife  for  their  vis-ct-vis.  Dina,  in  the 
wildest  spirits,  danced  alone,  one  fantastic  dance  after 
another,  and  really  with  a  great  deal  of  grace.  I,  too,  not- 
withstanding this  dreadful  affliction  (my  deafness)  which  is 
turning  me  gray,  danced  for  a  few  minutes,  but  without 
gayety  or  even  the  .pretense  of  it. 

Friday,  July  15.— We  are  at  Karkoff ;  I  cough  a  great 
deal  and  breathe  with  difficulty.  I  have  just  been  looking 
at  myself  in  the  glass,  expecting  to  see  traces  of  my  mahcly; 
but  no,  there  is  nothing  as  yet.  I  am  slender  but  far  from 


246  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

being  thin,  and  then  my  bare  shoulders  have  a  smooth  and 
rosy  appearance  that  does  not  agree  with  my  cough,  nor 
with  the  sounds  to  be  heard  in  my  throat.  I  cannot  hear  as 
well  as  formerly,  however.  I  have  taken  cold,  and  that  is 
probably  the  reason  why  my  cough  is  worse.  Ah,  well  ! 

Mamma  and  I  went,  into  one  of  the  convents  here,  to-day, 
and  mamma  knelt  down  and  prayed  with  fervor  before  an 
image  of  the  Virgin.  How  can  any  one  pray  to  a  picture  ? 
I  had,  indeed,  intended  doing  so,  but  I  could  not.  It  is 
different  when  the  desire  comes  to  me  of  itself,  when  I  am 
in  my  own  room — then  I  feel  the  better  for  having  prayed. 
And  I  believe  that  God  can  cure  me,  but  God  only.  Before 
doing  so,;  however,  He  would  have  to  forgive  me  first  for  so 
many  little  sins  ! 

Satiirday,  July  16. — This  morning  Pacha,  my  old  admirer, 
arrived  here.  He  has  grown  stouter,  but  he  is  still  the 
same  rude  and  uncultivated,  but  harmless  being,  as  before. 

Thursday,  July  21. — Here  we  are  at  Kieff,  the  "holy 
city,"  the  "  mother  of  Russian  cities,"  according  to  St. 
Wladimir,  who,  having  received  baptism  himself,  afterward 
baptized  all  his  people,  with  their  own  consent  or  without 
it,  as  the  case  might  be,  driving  them  into  the  waters  of  the 
Dnieper.  Some  of  them  must  have  been  drowned,  I  fancy. 
What  troubled  the  imbeciles  most,  however,  was  the  fate  of 
their  idols,  which  were  cast  into  the  river  at  the  same  time 
that  the  people  were  baptized  in  its  waters.  The  rest  of 
the  world  is  so  ignorant  with  regard  to  everything  that  con- 
cerns Russia  that  I  shall  perhaps  tell  you  something  you 
did  not  know  before,  when  I  say  that  the  Dnieper  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  rivers  in  the  world,  and  that  its  banks 
are  extremely  picturesque.  The  houses  in  Kieff  have  an 
appearance  of  being  thrown  together  in  confusion,/^;;///^, 
no  matter  how,  as  it  were.  There  is  an  upper  city  and  a 


l88i.j         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSE1-F.  247 

lower  city,  and  the  streets  are  very  steep.  This  is  not  very 
agreeable,  for  the  distances  are  enormous,  but  it  is  pictur- 
esque. Nothing  remains  of  the  ancient  city.  The  Rus- 
sian civilization  of  that  time  contented  itself  with  construct- 
ing mean  temples,  without  art  or  solidity,  to  which  fact  it 
is  due  that  we  possess  few  or  no  monuments  of  the  past. 
If  I  were  given  to  exaggeration,  I  should  say  that  there  are 
as  many  churches  in  the  city  as  there  are  dwelling-houses. 
There  are  also  a  great  many  cathedrals  and  convents  ;  in 
fact,  three  or  four  of  these  buildings  may  at  times  be  seen 
standing  together  in  a  row,  all  adorned  with  numerous 
gilded  cupolas ;  the  walls  and  columns  are  whitewashed 
and  the  roofs  and  cornices  are  green.  Often  the  entire 
facade  of  the  structure  is  covered  with  pictures  of  the  saints, 
and  scenes  from  their  lives,  but  all  executed  with  extreme 
crudeness. 

We  first  visited  La  Lavra,  a  convent  which  thousands  of 
pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  Russia  come  to  visit  every  day. 

The  iconostase,  or  partition  that  separates  the  altar  from 
the  body  of  the  church,  is  covered  with  images  of  the  saints, 
either  painted  or  inlaid  with  silver.  The  shrines,  and  the 
doors,  which  are  completely  covered  with  silver,  must  have 
cost  an  immense  amount  of  money  ;  the  coffins  of  the  saints 
too,  which  are  inlaid  with  wrought  silver,  and  the  candela- 
bra and  candlesticks,  all  of  the  same  metal,  must  be  of  great 
value.  They  say  these  monks  have  in  their  possession  sacks 
full  of  precious  stones. 

Mamma  prayed  with  unexampled  fervor.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  Dina  and  papa  prayed  for  me  also. 

The  miracle  did  not  take  place,  however.  You  laugh5 
Well,  as  for  me  I  almost  counted  upon  it.  I  attach  no  im- 
portance whatever  to  churches,  relics,  or  masses  ;  no,  but  I 
relied  on  their  prayers,  on  my  prayers.  And  I  rely  upon 
them  still.  God  has  not  yet  heard  my  prayer,  but  perhaps 
one  day  He  will.  I  believe  only  in  God  ;  but  is  the  God  I 


248  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1881. 

believe  in  a  God  who  listens  to  us,  "and  who  concerns  Him- 
self in  our  affairs  ? 

God  may  not  restore  me  to  health,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  a 
church.  I  have  not  deserved  this  ;  but  He  will  have  com- 
passion on  me  and  inspire  some  doctor  who  will  cure  me — 
or  perhaps  He  will  suffer  time  to  do  so.  But  I  shall  not 
cease  to  pray. 

As  for  mamma,  she  believes  in  images  and  relics — her 
religion,  in  a  word,  is  paganism — as  is  the  case  with  the 
greater  number  of  people  who  are  devout  and — not  very 
intelligent. 

Perhaps  the  miracle  would  have  taken  place  if  I  had 
believed  in  the  power  of  images  and  relics.  But  at  the 
same  time  that  I  knelt  and  prayed  I  could  not  succeed  in 
doing  this.  I  can  more  easily  understand  how  one  should 
kneel  down  anywhere  else,  and  pray  to  God  quite  simply. 
God  is  everywhere.  But  how  believe  in  these  things  ?  It 
appears  to  me  that  this  species  of  fetichism  is  an  insult  to 
God  and  a  wrong  done  Him.  In  the  case  of  the  majority 
of  persons, — of  the  pilgrims,  for  instance, — God  is  lost 
sight  of;  they  see  nothing  but  a  piece  of  dry  flesh  that  has 
the  power  to  work  a  miracle,  or  a  wooden  image  to  which 
they  may  pray,  and  which  will  hear  their  prayers.  Am  I 
wrong  ?  Are  they  right  ? 

PARIS,  Tuesday,  July  26. — I  am  at  last  here  !  This  is 
to  live  !  Among  other  places,  I  went  to  the  studio;  they 
received  me  there  with  kisses  and  cries  of  welcome. 

Wednesday,  July  27. — I  mentioned  to  Julian  a  subject  I 
had  thought  of  for  a  painting,  but  he  was  not  very  enthusi- 
astic about  it.  And  then  for  two  hours  he  did  nothing  but 
talk  to  me  of  my  health,  and  that  without  any  disguise. 
He  thinks  my  condition  serious.  He  may  well  think  so, 
since  two  months'  treatment  have  made  no  change  in  it  for 


iSSi.]          JOCRX.IL  Or  MARIE  BASHKIR TS1-. TI-.  249 

the  better.  I  know  myself  that  it  is  serious;  that  I  grow 
worse  every  day  ;  that  I  am  gradually  fading  away  ;  and  at 
the  same  time  I  refuse  to  believe  such  horrible  things. 
Breslau  has  received  her  honorable  mention.  She  has  al- 
ready had  some  orders.  Madame  M ,  who  has  taken  a 

great  interest  in  her,  and  at  whose  house  she  has  met  the 
most  celebrated  artists  in  Paris,  has  given  her  an  order  for 
her  portrait,  for  the  coming  Salon.  She  has  already  sold 
three  or  four  pictures;  in  short,  she  is  on  the  road  to  for- 
tune. And  I  ? — And  1  am  a  consumptive  !  Julian  tries 
to  frighten  me  so  as  to  induce  me  to  take  care  of  myself. 
I  would  take  care  of  myself  if  I  had  any  confidence  in  the 
result.  It  is  a  melancholy  fate  to  befall  one  at  my  age. 
Julian  is  in  truth  right.  In  a  year  from  now  I  shall  see  how 
changed  1  shall  be  ;  that  is  to  say  that  there  will  be  then 
nothing  left  of  me.  I  went  to  day  to  visit  Colignon.  She 
will  die  soon  ;  there  is  one  who  is  indeed  changed  !  Rosa- 
lie had  prepared  me  for  it,  but  I  was  shocked  to  see  her ; 
she  looks  like  death  itself. 

Can  you  not  fancy  you  already  see  me  feeble,  emaciated,- 
pale,  dying,  dead  ? 

Is  it  not  atrocious  that  this  should  be  so  ?  But,  dying 
young,  I  shall  at  least  inspire  every  one  with  pity.  I  am 
myself  touched  with  compassion  when  I  think  of  my  fate. 
No,  it  does  not  seem  possible  !  Nice,  Rome,  my  girlish 
dreams,  the  mad  delights  of  Naples,  art,  ambition,  illimit- 
able hopes— all  to  end  in  a  coffin,  without  ever  having  pos- 
sessed anything — even  love  ! 

I  was  right ;  it  is  not  possible  to  live,  constituted  as  I 
am,  when  one's  life  is  such  as  mine  has  been  from  child- 
hood. To  live  to  be  old  would  have  been  too  much  to  ex- 
pect in  such  circumstances. 

And  yet  we  see  people  who  are  more  fortunate  than  I 
ever  hoped  to  be,  even  in  my  wildest  dreams. 

For  every  other  sorrow  there  may  be  found  some  con- 


25°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.          [1881. 

solation ;  but  for  the  pangs  of  wounded  vanity  there  is 
none  ;  they  are  worse  than  death  itself.  And  what  of  disap- 
pointed affection,  of  absence  from  those  we  love  ?  These, 
at  least,  are  not  death.  I  can  scarcely  keep  back  my  tears ; 
I  believe  that  my  health  is  irretrievably  ruined,  and  that  I 
am  going  to  die.  But  it  is  not  that  I  complain  of,  it  is  my 
deafness  !  And  then,  just  now,  Breslau  ;  but  Breslau  is  a 
blow  that  was  not  needed.  Everywhere  beaten,  everywhere 
repulsed. 

Well,  then,  let  death  come. 

Tuesday,  August  9. — I  went  to  the  doctor's  this  morn- 
ing ;  this  is  the  third  time  in  two  weeks  ;  he  makes  me  go 
to  him  so  that  he  may  receive  a  louis  for  every  visit,  for 
the  treatment  is  always  the  same. 

Truly  it  is  enough  to  drive  one  mad.  They  say  that  in  a 
thousand  cases  of  the  disease  I  suffer  from,  in  not  more 
than  one  case  does  deafness  occur,  and  that  happens  to  be 
precisely  my  case.  We  see  people  who  suffer  from  the 
throat,  people  who  have  consumption,  every  day,  but 
they  do  not  become  deaf.  Ah,  it  is  such  an  unlooked- 
for  misfortune  !  It  was  not  enough  that  I  should  lose 
my  voice,  that  I  should  lose  my  health,  but  this  un- 
speakable torture  must  be  added  to  my  other  trials. 
This  must  be  a  judgment  upon  me  for  complaining  about 
trifles.  Is  it  God  who  thus  chastises  me  ?  The  God  of 
pardon,  of  goodness,  of  mercy  ?  But  the  most  cruel  of 
men  could  not  be  more  pitiless  than  this  ! 

I  am  in  a  state  of  constant  torture.  To  have  to  blush 
before  my  family  ;  to  be  made  to  feel  their  complaisance  in 
raising  their  voices  when  they  speak  to  me  !  To  be  obliged 
to  tremble  every  time  I  enter  a  shop  lest  I  should  betray 
my  deafness  !  Then  it  is  not  so  bad,  however,  but  when  I 
am  with  my  friends— all  the  stratagems  I  am  compelled  to 
make  use  of  to  conceal  my  infirmity  !  No,  no,  no,  it  is  too 


i88i.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BA SHKIR TSEFF.  251 

cruel,  it  is  too  frightful,  it  is  too  terrible  !  And  the  mod- 
els—when I  am  painting  !  I  am  not  always  able  to  hear 
what  they  say  to  me,  and  I  tremble  every  time  I  think  they 
are  going  to  address  me.  Do  you  think  my  work  does  not 
show  the  effects  of  this  ?  When  Rosalie  is  present  she 
helps  me,  but  when  I  am  alone  I  grow  dizzy,  my  tongue 
refuses  to  say,  "  Speak  a  little  louder,  I  cannot  hear  very 
well  !  "  My  God  !  have  pity  upon  me  !  And  to  cease  to 
believe  in  God  would  be  to  die  of  despair  !  First,  the  sore 
throat,  then  the  affection  of  the  lungs,  and  now  deafness. 
Now  I  must  undergo  treatment  for  that  !  But— I  have  al- 
ways been  under  treatment.  Dr.  Krishaber  is  to  blame  for 
all  this  ;  it  is  in  consequence  of  his  treatment  that  I — 

My  God,  must  I  then  be  so  cruelly  cut  off  from  commu- 
nication with  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  And  it  is  I,  \,  1  I  who 
have  to  bear  this.  There  are  many  people  to  whom  it 
would  not  be  so  terrible  a  misfortune,  but  to  me — 

Oh,  what  a  terrible  thing  ! 

Thursday,  August  u. — I  go  to  Passy  every  day,  but  I 
have  no  sooner  begun  work  on  a  picture  than  I  conceive  a 
horror  of  what  I  have  done.  And  I  injure  my  eyes,  and 
waste  my  time  reading  in  order  to  quiet  my  nerves. 

And  there  is  no  one  whom  I  can  consult  in  regard  to  my 
doubts.  Tony  is  in  Switzerland,  Julian  is  in  Marseilles. 

It  may  be  true  that  I  have  no  greater  cause  for  com- 
plaint than  others  have.  This  may  be  so  ;  but  it  is  equally 
true  that  I  am  no  longer  good  for  anything  !  Social  life, 
politics,  intellectual  enjoyments — in  none  of  these  can  I 
take  a  part,  except  through  the  medium  of  a  fog,  as  it  were, 
through  which  everything  reaches  my  senses  dulled  and 
confused. 

And  should  I  venture  to  seek  these  pleasures,  I  would 
only  run  the  risk  of  covering  myself  with  ridicule  or  of 
being  taken  for  a  fool.  All  the  eccentricities,  the  fits  of 


252  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

absent-mindedness,  the  brusqueness  I  must  affect,  only  to 
conceal  from  Saint-Amand  the  fact  that  I  cannot  hear  well ! 
It  is  enough  to  discourage  the  stoutest  heart.  How  is  it 
possible  to  confess  that  one  is  deaf,  when  one  is  young  and 
elegant,  and  pretends  to  be  able  to  do  everything  ?  How 
is  it  possible  to  solicit  indulgence  or  pity  in  such  circum- 
stances ?  Besides,  of  what  use  would  it  all  be  ?  My  head 
feels  splitting,  and  I  no  longer  know  where  I  am.  Oh,  no  ! 
there  is  no  God  such  as  I  have  imagined  God  to  be.  There 
is  a  Supreme  Being,  there  is  Nature,  there  is,  there  is — 
but  the  God  I  have  prayed  to  every  day,  this  God  does  not 
exist.  That  God  should  deny  me  everything — well  and 
good  ;  but  to  torture  me  to  death  in  this  manner !  To 
render  me  more  wretched,  more  dependent  than  any  beggar 
in  the  street  !  And  what  crime  have  I  committed  ?  I  am 
not  a  saint,  it  is  true.  I  do  not  spend  my  life  in  churches  ; 
I  do  not  fast.  But  you  know  what  my  life  has  been — with 
the  exception  of  treating  my  family  disrespectfully,  who  do 
not  deserve  it  from  me,  I  have  nothing  to  reproach  myself 
with.  Of  what  use  would  it  be  to  ask  pardon  every  night 
in  my  prayers  for  being  compelled  by  circumstances  to  say 
disagreeable  things  to  my  family  ?  For  if  it  be  true  that  I 
am  to  blame  with  regard  to  mamma,  you  know  well  it  was  in 
order  to  spur  her  to  action  that  I  have  spoken  harshly  to  her. 

Friday,  August  12. — You  think  perhaps  that  I  have 
decided  upon  a  subject  for  my  picture  ?  I  can  do  nothing. 
I  am  possessed  by  the  horrible  certainty  of  my  incapacity. 
Here  is  a  month  or  more  gone  already,  counting  the  time 
lost  in  traveling,  during  which  I  have  done  nothing.  I  am 
disappointed  beforehand  with  my  work  ;  I  see  it  in  imagina- 
tion, without  a  trace  of  animation,  beauty,  or  genius.  It  is 
odious  !  I  can  do  nothing  ! 

Saturday,  August  13. — You  are  not  ignorant  of  the  fact 


i88i.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIK1RTSEFF.  253 

that  my  right  lung  is  affected  ;  well,  you  will  no  doubt' be 
glad  to  learn  now  that  the  left  lung  is  affected  also,  though 
it  is  true  that  none  of  those  idiots  of  doctors  have  told  me 
so  as  yet.  I  felt  the  first  symptoms  of  this  in  the  catacombs 
of  the  relics  at  Kieff,  but  I  thought  it  was  only  a  temporary 
pain  caused  by  the  dampness.  Since  then  I  have  felt  it 
constantly  ;  to-night  it  is  so  severe  that  I  can  scarcely  draw 
my  breath.  I  feel  it  very  distinctly  between  the  shoulder- 
blade  and  the  chest,  in  the  spot  where  the  doctors  strike 
their  little  blows. 
And  my  picture? 

Sunday,  August  14. — Last  night  I  could  scarcely  sleep, 
and  this  morning  I  still  feel  the  pain  in  my  chest. 

I  have  given  up  the  idea  of  painting  my  picture — that  is 
decided  upon.  But  how  much  time  I  have  lost  with  it ! — 
more  than  a  month. 

As  for  Breslau,  encouraged  as  she  must  be  by  her  honor- 
able mention,  things  are  no  doubt  prospering  with  her;  for 
me,  my  hands  are  tied  ;  I  have  no  longer  any  confidence 
in  myself. 

Thursday,  August  18. — .  ...  I  have  been  looking 
through  my  portfolios,  where  I  can  follow  my  progress  step 
by  step.  I  have  often  said  to  myself  that  Breslau  knew 
how  to  paint  before  I  had  begun  to  draw.  "  But  is  this 
girl  the  whole  world  to  you,  then  ? "  you  will  say.  However 
this  may  be,  I  know  it  is  no  petty  feeling  that  makes  me 
fear  this  rival.  I  knew  from  the  beginning  that  she  had 
talent,  whatever  the  professors  or  our  fellow- pupils  might 
say  to  the  contrary.  And  you  see  that  I  was  right.  Only 
to  think  of  this  girl  vexes  me.  I  have  felt  a  stroke  of  her 
pencil  on  one  of  my  drawings  like  a  blow  on  my  heart. 
This  is  because  I  am  conscious  of  a  power  in  her  before 
which  I  must  at  last  succumb.  She  always  made  com- 


254  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

parisons  between  herself  and  me;  the  dunces  at  the  studio 
said  she  would  never  know  how  to  paint ;  that  she  had  no 
idea  of  colors  ;  that  she  only  knew  how  to  draw — exactly 
what  they  say  of  me  now.  That  ought  to  be  a  consolation 
to  me  ;  indeed  it  is  the  only  one  left  me  now. 

In  1876  (in  February)  she  received  the  medal  for  drawing 
She  began  to  draw  in  June,  1875,  after  having  studied  for 
two  years  in  Switzerland.  As  I  myself  saw,  it  was  not  until 
after  she  had  struggled  for  two  years  against  the  most  dis- 
couraging failures  that  she  began  to  succeed  in  painting. 
In  1879  she  exhibited  in  accordance  with  Tony's  advice.  At 
this  time  I  had  been  painting  for  six  months.  In  a  month 
it  will  be  three  years  since  I  first  began  to  paint. 

The  question  now  is  whether  I  am  capable  of  doing  any- 
thing equal  to  the  pictures  she  exhibited  in  1879.  Julian 
says  that  her  picture  of  1879  was  better  than  that  of  1881, 
only,  as  they  were  not  good  friends,  he  made  no  effort  to 
push  her  forward,  although  he  refrained  from  doing  any- 
thing to  keep  her  back.  Her  picture  of  last  year  was  placed, 
as  mine  was,  in  the  morgue,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  outer 
gallery. 

This  year  she  made  her  peace  with  Julian,  and  finding 
favor  with  the  new  school  also,  she  was  placed  on  the  line. 
The  medal  follows,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Saturday,  August  20. — I  have  been  to  see  Falguiere,  the 
sculptor.  I  told  him  I  was  an  American,  and  showed  him 
some  of  my  drawings,  telling  him  of  my  desire  to  study 
sculpture  ;  a  few  of  these  he  thought  excellent,  and  the 
others  good.  He  directed  me  to  a  studio  where  he  gives 
lessons,  saying  that  should  I  not  succeed  in  making  ar- 
rangements there,  his  instructions  were  at  my  service  either 
at  my  own  house  or  at  his.  This  was  very  kind  on  his 
part,  but  for  a  teacher  I  have  Saint  Marceaux,  whom  \ 
adore,  and  I  shall  content  myself  with  the  studio, 


1 83 1.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  255 

BIARRITZ,  Friday \  September  16. — Having  bade  ourfriends 
adieu,  we  left  Paris  Thursday  morning.  We  passed  the 
night  at  Bordeaux,  where  Sarah  Bernhardt  was  acting.  We 
secured  two  stalls  in  the  balcony  for  fifty  francs.  The  play 
was  "  Camille."  Unfortunately  I  happened  to  be  very  tired  ; 
this  actress  has  been  so  raved  about  that  I  can  scarcely  tell 
what  1  think  of  her  myself.  I  expected  to  see  her  do  every- 
thing in  a  different  way  from  any  one  else,  and  I  was  a  little 
surprised  at  the  natural  manner  in  which  she  talked,  and 
walked,  and  sat  down.  I  have  seen  her  only  four  times  ; 
once, when  I  was  a  child,  in  "  The  Sphynx,"  and  again  in  "  The 
Sphynx"  not  long  ago,  and  in  "  L'Etrangere."  I  paid  the 
greatest  attention  to  her  every  movement.  I  think,  perhaps, 
after  all,  that  she  is  charming. 

What  there  is  no  doubt  about  is  that  Biarritz  is  beautiful, 
beautiful ! 

The  sea  has  been  of  an  enchanting  color  all  day.  Such 
exquisite  gray  tints  ! 

Saturday \  September  17. — So  far  I  have  seen  none  of  those 
extraordinary  natural  beauties  that  I  expected  to  see  at 
Biarritz.  As  for  the  beach,  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
it  is  ugly  and  disagreeable. 

Oh,  Nice  !     Oh,  bay  of  Naples  ! 

Sunday,  September  18. — My  costume  here  is  a  simple  gown 
of  batiste  or  of  white  flannel,  without  trimming,  but  charm- 
ingly made,  boots  bought  here,  and  a  youthful-looking 
white  hat,  a  hat  such  as  a  happy  woman  might  wear.  This 
forms  an  ensemble  that  attracts  a  great  deal  of  attention. 

Tuesday,  September  27.— We  spent  the  day  en  famillet 
yesterday  at  Bayonne  ;  to-day  we  spent  at  Fontarabia,  also 
en  famille.  I  seldom  go  out ;  I  would  like  to  take  a 
ride,  but  my  riding-habit  does  not  fit  me,  and  then  it  would 


256  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

bore  me  to  ride  in  the  company  of  a  Russian  whom  I 
scarcely  know,  and  whom  I  find  tiresome. 

There  is  a  roulette  table  here  at  which  I  tried  my  luck  ; 
when  I  had  lost  forty  francs  I  stopped,  and  occupied  my- 
self in  sketching  instead.  I  sat  in  an  obscure  corner,  and 
I  hope  no  one  observed  me. 

We  left  Biarritz  on  Thursday  morning,  and  reached 
Burgos  last  night.  I  was  struck  by  the  majestic  beauty  of 
the  Pyrenees.  I  made  a  rough  sketch  of  the  Cathedral  ; 
but  how  describe  these  painted  sculptures,  these  gewgaws, 
this  conglomeration  of  gilding  and  ornamentation  that  go 
to  make  up  a  magnificent  whole  ?  The  chapels,  however, 
with  their  immense  gratings  and  shadowy  recesses,  are 
wonderful.  In  the  Cathedral  is  the  Magdalen  of  Leonardo 
da  Vinci.  Shall  I  confess  that  I  found  it  ugly,  and  that  it 
caused  me  no  emotion  whatever,  which,  for  that  matter, 
was  the  case  with  the  Madonnas  of  Raphael  also. 

Since  yesterday  morning  we  have  been  in  Madrid.  We 
went  this  morning  to  the  Museum.  Compared  with  this 
collection  the  Louvre,  Rubens,  Philippe  de  Champagne, 
even  Vandyke  and  the  Italian  painters,  sink  into  insignifi- 
cance. There  is  nothing  in  the  world  to  equal  Velasquez  ; 
but  I  am  still  too  dazzled  to  be  able  to  judge  clearly.  And 
Ribera  !  He  is  wonderful  !  -These,  these  indeed  are  the 
true  exponents  of  naturalism  !  Can  there  be  anything 
more  admirably,  more  divinely  true  to  nature  than  these  ? 
Ah,  how  it  moves  me,  and  how  unhappy  it  makes  me  to  see 
such  things  !  Ah,  how  it  makes  me  long  for  genius  !  And 
they  dare  to  compare  the  pallid  pictures  of  Raphael,  and  the 
uusubstantial  paintings  of  the  French  school,  with  these  ! 
And  the  coloring  !  It  is  impossible  that  one  who  feels  color 
as  I  do  should  be  unable  to  produce  it. 

At  nine  o'clock  this  morning  I  was  already  at  the  Mu- 
seum, among  the  paintings  of  Velasquez,  beside  which 
those  of  every  other  artist  look  hard  and  cold,  not  except- 


1 88 1.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  257 

ing  even  those  of  Ribera,  who,  indeed,  cannot  be  considered 
his  equal.  In  the  "  Portrait  of  an  unknown  Sculptor  "  there 
is  a  hand  which  is  the  clue  to  the  secret  of  Carolus  Duran's 
admirable  execution  :  the  latter,  as  is  well  known,  purposes 
editing  the  works  of  Velasquez. 

We*  bought  a  Spanish  guitar  and  a  Spanish  mandolin. 
The  rest  of  the  world  has  no  idea  of  what  Spain  is  like. 
And  they  say  Madrid  is  less  distinctively  Spanish  than  the 
cities  we  have  yet  to  see — Toledo,  Granada,  Seville.  Such 
as  it  is,  I  am  enchanted  to  be  here.  I  am  feverishly  eager 
to  get  my  hand  in  by  copying  something  at  the  Museum, 
and  afterward  painting  a  picture,  even  if  I  should  have  to 
stay  here  two  months  to  do  it. 

Thursday.— I  have  copied  the  hand  of  the  Velasquez.  I 
went  to  the  Museum,  dressed  quietly  in  black,  with  a  man- 
tilla, such  as  all  the  women  here  wear  ;  yet  a  great  many 
persons  came  to  stand  behind  my  chair  and  look  on  while  I 
worked — one  man  in  particular. 

It  seems  that  in  the  matter  of  gallantry  the  men  in  Ma- 
drid are  even  worse  than  those  in  Italy  ;  they  walk  up  and 
down  under  their  mistresses'  windows,  playing  the  guitar  ; 
they  follow  you  and  talk  to  you  in  the  street,  and  they  are 
persistent  in  their  alterations.  Love-letters  are  exchanged 
in  church,  and  every  young  girl  has  five  or  six  of  these 
admirers;  they  are  extraordinarily  gallant  with  ladies,  with- 
out, however,  transgressing  the  bounds  of  delicacy  ;  they 
accost  you  in  the  street  and  tell  you  that  you  are  beautiful 
and  that  they  adore  you  ;  they  ask  in  all  honor  and  good 
faith,  knowing  that  you  are  a  lady,  to  be  allowed  to  accom- 
pany you. 

Here  you  may  see  men  spread  their  cloaks  on  the  ground 
that  you  may  pass  over  them.  For  my  part  I  find  all  this 
delightful.  Whenever  I  walk  in  the  streets,  tastefully  and 
simply  dressed,  as  is  my  custom,  the  men  stop  to  look  at 


258  JOURNAL  OP  MARIE  BAS8KIRTSEFP.         [1881. 

me.  This  makes  me  feel  a  new  life  ;  it  is  a  romantic  and 
novel  existence,  colored  with  the  chivalry  of  the  middle 
ages. 

Sunday,  October  9. — As  I  was  painting  at  the  Museum,  two 
men,  neither  of  whom  was  young  or  handsome,  came  up  and 
asked  me  if  I  were  not  Mile.  Bashkirtseff.  I  answered  that 
I  was  ;  they  appeared  delighted.  M.  Soldatenkoff  is  a 
millionnaire  from  Moscow,  who  has  traveled  a  great  deal, 
and  who  adores  art  and  artists.  Pollack  told  me  after- 
wards that  Madrazo,  the  son  of  the  director  of  the  Museum, 
and  himself  an  artist,  admired  my  copy  very  much,  and 
asked  to  be  presented  to  me.  Soldatenkoff  asked  me  if  I 
wished  to  part  with  the  picture,  and  I  was  so  foolish  as  to 
say  no. 

As  for  painting,  I  am  on  the  way  to  learn  a  great  deal 
about  it  here.  I  can  see  things  now  that  I  never  saw 
before.  I  keep  my  eyes  wide  open  ;  I  walk  around  on  tip- 
toe ;  I  scarcely  dare  to  breathe,  so  to  speak,  lest  the  spell 
should  be  broken,  for  it  is  a  veritable  spell ;  I  hope  at  last 
to  realize  my  dreams.  I  think  I  know  now  how  to  set 
to  work ;  all  my  energies  are  directed  toward  the  one 
absorbing  aim — to  produce  something  that  shall  be  good, 
that  shall  be  real  flesh — something  lifelike — and  when  I 
can  do  that  I  can  do  greater  things;  for  everything — 
everything  is  in  the  execution.  What  is  the  "Vulcan's 
Forge  "  of  Vela?quez,  or  his  "  Spinners  "  ?  Take  away  from 
these  paintings  their  wonderful  execution,  and  nothing  but 
commonplace  figures  remain.  I  know  that  many  people  will 
cry  out  in  disapproval  of  this,  beginning  with  the  fools 
who  pretend  to  adore  feeling  ;  and  feeling,  indeed,  is 
much  ;  it  is  the  poetry  of  style,  the  chief  charm  of  art. 
This  is  more  true  than  we  are  apt  to  think.  Do  you 
admire  the  primitive  style  of  art  ?  its  crude  and  meagre 
forms,  its  smooth  execution  ?  It  is  curious  and  interesting, 


iSdi.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  259 

but  it  is  impossible  to  admire  it.  Do  you  admire  the  Vir- 
gins in  the  cartoons  of  Raphael  ?  1  shall  be  considered 
wanting  in  taste,  but  I  confess  that  they  do  not  touch  me  ; 
there  is  in  them  a  feeling  and  a  nobility  of  style  that  com- 
mand my  respect,  but  I  cannot  admire  them.  There  are 
some  other  compositions  of  Raphael,  however,  as  the 
"  School  of  Athens  "  for  instance,  that  are  admirable,  incom- 
parable ;  especially  engraved  or  photographed.  There  is 
feeling  in  them,  thought,  true  genius.  Observe  that  I  dis- 
like equally  the  gross  flesh  of  Rubens,  and  the  magnificent, 
but  soulless,  flesh  of  Titian.  Soul  is  as  necessary  in  a  paint- 
ing as  body.  The  true  artist  should  conceive  as  a  man  of 
genius,  and  execute  as  a  poet. 

Monday,  October  10. — I  dreamed  last  night  that  they 
were  explaining  to  me  what  was  the  matter  with  my  right 
lung  ;  into  certain  portions  of  it  the  air  cannot  penetrate, 
and  this  causes  an  accumulation — but  it  is  too  disgusting 
to  describe  ;  let  it  suffice  that  the  lung  is  affected.  And  I 
am  convinced  that  it  is  so,  for  I  have  felt  a  species  of 
malaise  for  some  time  past — a  debility,  for  which  I  cannot 
account.  In  short,  I  have  a  strange  sort  of  feeling  as  if  I 
were  different  from  other  people ;  as  if  I  were  surrounded 
by  an  enervating  atmosphere,  so  to  speak ;  I  feel  a  pecu- 
liar sensation  in  my  chest,  I  have — But  why  describe  all 
these  symptoms  ? — the  disease  will  soon  make  itself  suffi- 
ciently evident. 

Wednesday,  October  12. — I  am  finishing  my  copy  of  the 
"  Vulcan  "  of  Velasquez,  and  if  I  am  to  judge  by  what  the 
public  think  of  it,  it  must  be  good.  The  poor  devils  of 
artists,  who  make  copies  on  a  reduced  scale  of  celebrated 
pictures  for  sale,  come  often  during  the  day  to  watch  me 
while  I  work,  and  the  young  fellows  from  the  School  of 
Fine  Arts,  as  well  as  many  of  the  visitors,  French,  English, 


260  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [i88r. 

and  Spanish,  discuss  my  work  among  themselves,  and  say 
the  most  flattering  things  of  me. 

Friday,  October  14. — At  seven  o'clock  yesterday  we  set 
out  for  Toledo.  I  had  heard  so  much  of  this  city  that  I 
expected  to  see  something  wonderful.  In  defiance  of 
reason  and  common-sense  i  had  pictured  it  to  myself  as 
something  in  the  style  of  the  Renaissance  and  the  Middle 
Ages — with  marvelous  buildings,  sculptured  doors  black- 
ened with  time,  balconies  exquisitely  carved,  etc.  I  knew 
very  well  it  must  be  quite  different  from  all  this,  but  such 
was  the  image  of  it  fixed  upon  my  mind  ;  and  the  contrast 
it  formed  with  the  thin  walls  and  broken-down  gates  of 
the  city,  as  they  presented  themselves  to  my  view,  spoiled 
Toledo  for  me.  Toledo  is  situated  on  a  height  like  a 
citadel  ;  it  is  a  labyrinth  of  little  streets,  narrow  and 
crooked,  into  which  the  sun  never  penetrates,  and  where 
the  inhabitants  seem  to  be  camping  out,  so  little  do  their 
houses  resemble  ordinary  dwellings.  It  is  a  Pompeii  pre- 
served entire,  but  looking  as  if  it  might  crumble  into  dust 
at  any  moment,  through  age  ;  the  soil  is  parched,  and  the 
high  walls  burned  by  the  sun  ;  there  are  wonderfully 
picturesque  courtyards,  mosques  converted  into  churches, 
and  daubed  with  whitewash,  beneath  which  may  be  seen, 
however,  where  this  peels  off,  paintings  and  arabesques  of 
which  the  colors  are  still  vivid,  with  ceilings  of  carved 
wood  divided  into  compartments,  that  have  grown  black 
with  time,  and  beams  crossing  each  other  curiously  over- 
head. The  cathedral  is  as  fine  as  that  of  Burgos,  and  is 
profusely  ornamented  ;  its  doors  are  marvels  of  beauty, 
and  the  cloister,  with  its  courtyard  filled  with  oleanders 
and  rose-bushes,  that  have  made  their  way  into  the  gal- 
leries and  twined  themselves  around  the  pillars  and  the 
somber  statues — there  is  an  indescribable  charm  about  all 
this,  when  a  ray  of  sunlight  falls  upon  it. 


iSSi.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIR TSEFF.  261 

No  one,  who  has  not  seen  them,  can  form  an  idea  of  the 
Spanish  churches— the  guides  in  rags,  the  sacristan  in  vel- 
vet, strangers  walking  around,  or  kneeling  down  praying, 
dogs  barking— all  this  has  a  wonderful  charm.  One  almost 
expects,  on  coming  out  of  one  of  these  chapels,  to  meet 
suddenly,  behind  some  pillar,  the  idol  of  one's  soul. 

It  is  incredible  that  a  country  so  near  the  center  of 
European  corruption  should  be  still  so  primitive,  so  uncon- 
taminated,  so  rude. 

And  what  colonnades,  what  pilasters,  what  antique  doors, 
studded  with  large  Spanish  or  Moorish  nails  !  Everything 
is  a  picture.  One  has  not  even  the  trouble  of  choosing  ;  all 
that  is  to  be  seen  is  odd  and  interesting. 

Sunday,  October  16. — One  of  the  most  curious  things  to  be 
seen  is  the  Rastro, — a  street  lined  with  booths,  resembling 
the  shops  in  Russian  villages,  where  all  sorts  of  things  are  to 
be  found.  And  what  life,  what  animation,  under  this 
burning  sun  !  It  is  wonderful  !  Here  marvelous  articles 
of  bric-a-brac  are  stored  away  in  dirty  houses.  In  little 
back-shops  and  up  romantic  staircases  are  to  be  found 
such  stuffs  as  might  make  one  wild  with  rapture. 

And  their  wretched  owners  seem  to  be  absolutely  indiffer- 
ent to  the  value  of  these  things  ;  they  pierce  the  most  beauti- 
ful stuffs,  with  wliich  the  walls  are  covered,  with  nails  on 
which  to  hang  up  old  pictures  ;  they  walk  over  embroideries 
spread  out  upon  the  floor,  over  pieces  of  antique  furniture, 
pictures,  sculptures,  reliquaries,  silver-ware,  and  old  rusty 
nails  all  heaped  together.  I  bought  an  embroidered 
curtain  of  a  reddish  salmon  color,  for  which  they  asked  me 
seven  hundred  francs  and  gave  me  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  and  a  cloth  skirt  embroidered  with  flowers  of  a  pale 
pretty  tint,  for  a  hundred  sous,  after  they  had  asked  me 
twenty  francs  for  it. 

Escobar  came   to-day  to   take    us   to  see   the  bull-fight. 


262  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [if Si. 

Eight  bulls  had  been  announced  to  appear,  and  it  was,  1  be- 
lieve, the  last  Sunday  of  the  season.  The  spectacle  was 
a  brilliant  one  ;  the  King,  the  Queen,  and  the  Infanta 
were  all  in  their  places.  There  were  music  and  sunshine, 
wild  cries,  stampings  of  the  feet,  and  hisses  ;  handkerchiefs 
were  waved,  hats  thrown  in  the  air.  The  spectacle  is  a 
unique  one  of  overpowering  grandeur.  I  began  after  a 
time  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  to  take  an 
interest  in  what  was  going  on,  though  I  had  gone  there 
against  my  inclinations,  and  with  a  shudder  of  disgust.  In 
full  view  of  this  butchery,  carried  on  with  the  utmost  refine- 
ment of  cruelty,  I  was  able  to  maintain  a  tranquil  air,  sus- 
tained by  my  pride.  I. did  not  once  turn  my  eyes  away. 
One  leaves  the  scene  slightly  intoxicated  with  blood,  so 
to  say,  and  feeling  a  desire  to  thrust  a  lance  into  the  neck 
of  every  chance  person  one  meets. 

I  stuck  my  knife  into  the  melon  I  was  cutting  at  table, 
as  if  it  were  a  banderilla  I  were  planting  in  the  hide  of  a 
bull,  and  the  pulp  seemed  like  the  palpitating  flesh  of  the 
wounded  animal.  The  sight  is  one  that  makes  the  knees 
tremble  and  the  head  throb.  It  is  a  lesson  in  murder. 
Yet  these  men  are  elegant  and  graceful,  and  notwithstand- 
ing their  extreme  agility  their  movements  are  dignified 
and  noble. 

Some  people  regard  this  duel  between  man  and  brute,  in 
which  the  latter  seems  to  have  so  much  the  advantage,  both 
in  size  and  strength,  over  the  former,  as  a  noble  spectacle ; 
but  can  it  with  truth  be  called  a  duel,  when  one  knows  from 
the  first  which  of  the  combatants  it  is  that  must  succumb  ? 
I  will  confess  that  there  is  something  to  captivate  the 
imagination  in  the  sight  of  the  matador,  with  his  brilliant 
costume,  that  displays  the  graceful  contours  of  his  figure, 
as  he  places  himself,  after  thrice  saluting  the  spectators, 
just  in  front  of  the  animal,  and  stands  calm  and  self- 
possessed,  his  cloak  on  his  arm,  his  sword  in  his  hand. 


1881.]         JO URXA L  OF  MARIE  BA. VIK'IRTSEFF.  263 

And  this  is  the  best  part  of  the  performance,  for  so  far 
there  is  scarcely  any  blood  shed.  As  for  the  sufferings  of 
the  horses,  the  Spaniards  themselves  do  not  like  that  part 
of  it.  Have  I  become  reconciled,  then,  to  this  barbarous 
amusement  ?  I  do  not  say  that,  but  it  has  its  grand,  almost 
its  heroic,  side.  In  this  amphitheater  with  its  fourteen  or 
fifteen  thousand  spectators,  we  seem  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
antiquity— that  antiquity  I  so  much  admire.  But  on  the 
other  hand  it  has  also  its  sanguinary,  its  horrible,  its  ig- 
noble side.  If  the  men  who  engage  in  it  were  less  skill- 
ful ;  if  they  were  more  often  to  receive  a  serious  wound 
or  two,  I  should  say  nothing.  But  what  revolts  me  in 
it  is  this  exhibition  of  human  cowardice.  Yet  it  is  said  the 
profession  of  a  matador  requires  the  courage  of  a  lion. 
I  do  not  think  so.  These  men  know  very  well  how  to 
avoid  the  attacks  of  the  brute,  terrible  it  is  true,  but 
attacks  which  they  themselves  have  provoked,  and  which 
they  are  prepared  for.  The  real  danger  is  in  the  case  of 
the  banderillero,  where  the  man  invites  the  attack  of  the 
animal,  and  just  as  the  latter  is  about  to  transfix  him  with 
his  horns,  anticipates  him  by  planting  his  banderillas  be- 
tween the  shoulders  of  the  brute.  For  this,  exceptional 
courage  and  skill  are  required. 

Wednesday,  October  19. — I  cough  so  violently  that  I  fear 
it  must  end  by  causing  some  injury  to  the  lungs.  And 
along  with  this  I  am  growing  thin,  or  rather — yes,  I  am 
growing  thin  ;  look  at  my  arm,  for  instance ;  when  I  stretch 
it  out  it  has  a  delicate  look,  instead  of  its  former  insolently 
robust  one.  It  is  pretty,  still,  however.  I  do  not  complain 
as  yet.  This  is  the  interesting  period,  when  one  is  slender 
without  being  thin,  and  there  is  a  certain  air  of  languor  in 
my  appearance  that  is  very  becoming;  but  if  I  continue 
thus,  in  a  year  more  I  shall  be  a  skeleton. 


264  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

Thursday,  October  20. — I  spent  two  hours  in  Cordova  this 
morning — just  the  time  necessary  to  take  a  glance  at  the 
city,  which  is  charming — in  its  way.  And  I  adore  cities 
like  Cordova ;  there  are  some  Roman  ruins  that  absolutely 
enchanted  me,  and  the  mosque  is  a  veritable  wonder. 

Saturday,  October  22. — Well,  here  we  are  in  Seville,  this 
much-vaunted  city.  Indeed  I  lose  a  great  deal  of  time 
here.  I  have  seen  the  Museum — a  single  hall  full  of  Mu- 
rillos;  I  would  have  liked  better  to  see  something  else,  es- 
pecially here ;  there  are  only  Virgins  and  other  sacred 
pictures.  I,  rude  and  ignorant  barbarian  as  I  am,  with 
whom  the  opinions  of  others  have  but  little  weight,  have 
never  yet  seen  a  Virgin  such  as  I  imagine  her  to  have  been. 
The  Virgins  of  Raphael  are  beautiful  in  photographs  ;  I 
confess  that  the  Virgins  of  Murillo,  with  their  round  faces 
and  rosy  cheeks,  appeal  but  little  either  to  my  imagination 
or  my  heart.  I  will  make  an  exception  in  favor  of  that  in 
the  Louvre,  however,  which  has  been  so  extensively  copied  ; 
that  is  the  one  which  is  painted  with  most  feeling ;  indeed, 
it  might  almost  be  characterized  as  divine. 

And  the  manufactory  of  cigars  and  cigarettes  !  What 
an  odor  prevails  there  !  If  it  was  only  that  of  the  tobacco, 
well  and  good  !  But  the  building  is  crowded  with  women 
in  bare  necks  and  arms,  little  girls,  and  children,  most  of 
whom  are  very  pretty.  Our  visit  here  was  an  interesting 
one.  The  Spanish  women  are  endowed  with  a  grace  not 
to  be  found  among  any  other  people.  Cigarette-rollers, 
women  who  sing  in  cafes,  walk  with  the  air  of  a  queen. 
And  the  way  in  which  the  head  is  set  upon  the  shoulders  ! 
And  such  arms,  round  and  beautifully  molded,  and  rich 
in  coloring.  They  are  indeed  captivating  and  wonderful 
creatures. 

Tuesday,    Octqber    25. — We   have   seen    the    Cathedral, 


l83i.]         JOL'RXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKUtTSEFF.  265 

which  is,  in  my  opinion,  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  as  well 
as  one  of  the  largest,  cathedrals  in  the  world  ;  the  Alcazar, 
with  its  delightful  gardens,  and  the  Bath  of  the  Sultans  ; 
afterward  we  took  a  stroll  through  the  streets.  I  do  not 
exaggerate  when  I  say  that  we  were  the  only  women  who 
wore  hats,  so  that  it  is  to  our  hats  I  attribute  the  attention 
we  attracted. 

If  I  had  even  been  more  elegantly  dressed,  but  I  wore  a 
gray  woolen  dress,  a  black  coat,  and  a  black  traveling  hat. 
But  strangers  here  are  regarded  somewhat  as  learned  mon- 
keys might  be  ;  people  stop  to  look  at  them,  and  either  hoot 
at  them  or  pay  them  compliments. 

The  children  hoot  at  me,  but  the  grown-up  people  tell 
me  I  am  beautiful  and  salada  ;  to  be  salada  is,  as  you  know, 
to  be  very  chic. 

Seville  is  white — all  white  ;  the  streets  are  narrow ; 
through  a  few  of  them  only  can  a  carriage  pass  ;  and  yet  it 
is  not  so  picturesque  as  one  would  expect  to  find  it.  Ah, 
Toledo  !  I  perceive  now  what  a  barbarian  I  am  ! 

These  half-savage  women  and  children  in  their  rags  are 
wonderful  in  coloring.  The  view  is  ravishing,  notwithstand- 
ing the  bare  look  of  the  white  houses.  But  it  rains  all  the 
time  ;  and  then,  I  am  en  famille. 

I  expected  to  meet  with  no  end  of  amusing  adventures 
in  Seville,  and  I  am  so  bored  that  I  remain  in  my  room  in 
the  hotel  almost  all  the  time,  and  then,  it  rains  without 
ceasing. 

There  is  no  romance  here,  no  poetry,  no  youth  even. 
There  is  nothing — I  repeat  it,  there  is  nothing  to  interest 
me  in  Seville  ;  I  feel  as  if  I  were  buried  alive — as  I  felt  this 
summer  in  Russia.  Why  all  this  traveling  ?  And  my 
painting?  It  is  now  five  months  since  I  was  at  the  studio. 
Of  these  five  months  I  have  lost  three  in  travel— I,  who 
have  so  much  need  to  work.  The  mention  of  Breslau  lias 
awakened  a  world  of  thoughts  within  me,  or  rather  it  has 


266  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

brought  nearer  to  me,  it  has  rendered  possible,  and  given  a 
character  of  reality  to  that  dream  of  the  medal  of  the  Salon 
which  was  so  far  in  the  distance,  which  I  dreamed  of  in  the 
romances  I  wove  before  going  to  sleep  at  night,  as  I  dreamed 
of  receiving  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  or  of  being 
Queen  of  Spain.  When  Villevielle  came  to  announce  to 
me  the  probability  of  Breslau's  mention,  she  looked  as  if 
she  thought  it  made  me — in  short,  others,  by  admitting 
that  I  might  dare  to  dream  of  a  prize,  have  given  me  the 
daring,  to  dream  of  it  ;  or  rather,  to  say  to  myself  that  since 
others  think  I  might  hope  to  receive  it,  there  must  be  a 
possibility  of  my  doing  so.  In  brief,  for  the  past  five 
months  I  have  cherished  this  dream. 

It  appears  as  if  I  were  digressing,  but  all  the  events  of 
life  are  linked  one  with  another.  Lorenzo's  studio  would 
be  a  good  subject  for  a  picture. 

Thursday,  October  27. — Oh,  happiness  !  I  have  quitted 
that  frightful  Seville  ! 

I  say  frightful,  the  more  especially  because  since  last 
night  we  have  been  in  Grenada,  because  we  have  been 
sight-seeing  since  morning,  and  because  I  have  already  seen 
the  inevitable  Cathedral,  the  Generalife,  and  something  of 
the  caves  of  the  Gypsies.  I  am  in  a  state  of  rapture.  At 
Biarritz  and  Seville  I  felt  as  if  my  hands  were  tied,  as  if 
everything  were  at  an  end — dead.  From  the  little  I  saw- of 
Cordova  it  impressed  me  as  being  an  artistic  city  ;  that  is 
to  say,  I  felt  that  I  could  have  worked  there  with  enthusi- 
asm. As  for  Grenada  there  is  only  one  thing  I  regret, 
and  that  is  that  I  cannot  remain  here  for  six  months  or 
a  year.  I  don't  know  on  what  side  to  turn,  there  are  so 
many  things  to  be  seen.  Such  streets  !  such  views  !  such 
outlines  ! 

To-morrow  I  am  to  visit  the  Alhambra,  and  to  sketch 
the  head  of  a  convict  which  I  am  going  to  paint. 


I88t.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  267 

Friday,  October  28. — I  spend  yesterday,  accordingly,  in 
the  prison  of  Grenada.  The  prisoners  enjoy  a  delightful 
degree  of  liberty  ;  the  courtyard  looks  like  a  market-place, 
the  doors  do  not  even  appear  to  close  well ;  in  brief  this 
prison  bears  no  resemblance  whatever  to  the  descriptions 
we  read  of  the  French  prisons. 

The  prisoner  condemned  to  death  walks  up  and  down  the 
courtyard  with  the  same  freedom  as  the  one  condemned  to 
imprisonment  for  a  year  or  two  for  some  trifling  offense. 

Saturday,  October  29. — At  last  I  have  seen  the  Alhambra. 
I  refrained  purposely  from  devoting  much  attention  to  its 
beauties  ;  in  the  first  place,  so  that  I  might  not  become  too 
much  attached  to  Grenada,  and  in  the  second  place,  because 
our  guide  interfered  by  his  presence  with  my  artistic  enjoy- 
ment. I  promise  myself  to  revisit  it,  however. 

Grenada,  seen  from  the  tower,  is  wonderfully  beautiful — 
the  mountains  covered  with  snow,  the  gigantic  trees,  the 
shrubs,  the  exquisite  flowers,  the  cloudless  sky,  and  then 
the  city  itself,  with  its  white  h  uses  bathed  in  sunshine,  sur- 
rounded by  all  these  natural  beauties  ;  the  Moorish  walls, 
the  tower  of  the  Generalife,  and  the  Alhambra  !  And,  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach,  a  sea  of  space  ;  indeed,  nothing  but 
the  sea  itself  is  wanting  to  make  this  the  most  delightful 
country  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be  com- 
pared to  the  majestic  grace  of  these  superb  draperies.  My 
mind  is  filled  with  thoughts  of  Boabdil  and  his  Moorish 
companions  whom  I  can  fancy  I  see  walking  through  the 
halls  of  this  palace,  unique  of  its  kind. 

Sunday,  October  30.— Grenada  is  as  picturesque  and  artistic 
as  Seville  is  commonplace,  notwithstanding  her  famous 
school.  The  streets  of  Grenada  are  almost  all  wonderfully 
picturesque. 

One  is  dazzled  and  distracted  in  every  sense.     One  might 


268  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

copy  the   first  chance  view  one  sees,  and    it  would  be  a 
picture. 

I  shall  return  here  next  August  to  remain  until  the  middle 
of  October. 


Monday ',  October  31. — I  am  glad  that  the  cold  drives  me 
away,  for  otherwise  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  leave 
this  country,  and  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  return  to  Paris. 
It  is  five  months  since  I  have  seen  Tony,  and  it  is  time  for 
me  to  think  of  hiring  a  studio  so  as  to  be  able  to  paint  my 
picture  for  the  Salon  at  my  leisure,  and  with  my  utmost 
skill.  The  first  year  did  not  count  ;  the  year  after  you 
know  how  short  was  the  time  I  had  in  which  to  prepare  my 
picture,  besides  the  other  drawbacks  ;  but  this  year  I  hope 
to  send  something  really  interesting. 

I  should  like  to  paint  the  bric-a-brac  shop  of  Lorenzo — a 
brilliant  light  falling  on  the  staircase  at  the  further  end, 
with  a  woman  in  the  background  arranging  some  draperies 
on  this  species  of  estrade.  In  the  foreground  another  woman 
bending  down,  engaged  in  cleaning  some  brass  ornaments, 
and  a  man  who  stands  looking  at  her  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  smoking  a  cigar. 

The  women  would  be  dressed  in  their  ordinary  chintz 
gowns,  which  I  could  buy  in  Madrid.  I  have  almost  all  the 
other  accessories  ;  all  that  would  remain  to  be  done  is  the 
arrangement  of  the  estrade,  which  would  cost  a  hundred 
francs  or  so.  But  it  would  be  necessary  to  find  a  studio 
large  enough.  Well,  we  shall  see.  We  are  to  set  out 
to-night,  and  I  can  scarcely  contain  myself  for  joy. 

My  travels  in  Spain  will  have  the  good  effect  of  curing 
me  of  eating  simply  for  the  sake  of  eating ;  which  is  a 
waste  of  time  and  dulls  the  intelligence.  I  have  become  as 
abstemious  as  an  Arab,  and  eat  only  what  is  strictly  neces- 
sary— just  enough  to  sustain  life, 


i  S3 1 .  ]         JO  URNAL  OF  MARIE  BA  MI  KIR  TSEI  /• .  269 

Wednesday,  November  2. — Here  we  are  again  in  Madrid, 
where  I  came  a  week  ago,  to  remain  three  days  in  the  hope 
of  retouching  a  sketch  of  the  shop  of  Lorenzo. 

Although  she  had  heard  me  speak  of  nothing  but  this  for 
some  days  past,  and  knew  how  impatient  I  was  to  reach 
Madrid,  it  was  quite  natural,  was  it  not,  that  my  aunt 
should  come,  ready  dressed  to  go  out,  and  say  to  me  ; 
"  Well,  shall  we  spend  the  day  doing  our  shopping  ?  "  And 
when  I  answered  that  I  was  going  to  paint,  she  looked  at 
me  in  astonishment  and  told  me  I  was  crazy. 

An  idea  strikes  me  :  I  think  I  have  found  a  subject  for  a 
picture  ;  I  collect  all  my  energies  :  the  vision  takes  form 
in  my  mind,  I  sketch  it  out,  I  am  completely  absorbed  in 
my  work  ;  I  rack  my  brain  to  find  a  harmonious  arrange- 
ment,— and  just  as  I  think  I  have  found  it,  and  am  trying  to 
fix  it  upon  my  mind  before  it  vanishes,  comes  some  one  of 
that  dear  family  who  are  so  uneasy  every  time  I  cough,  to 
interrupt  me.  And  yet  I  am  not  exceptionally  sensitive, 
either  !  Compared  with  other  artists,  indeed,  I  regard 
myself  as  exceedingly  practical,  though  not  sufficiently  so, 
as  you  see.  Ah,  thoughtless  and  careless  family  !  they 
will  never  understand  that  any  one  less  strong,  less 
energetic,  less  buoyant  in  spirit  than  I  am  would  be 
already  dead  ! 

Saturday,  November  5.— I  am  back  in  Paris  !  What  hap- 
piness !  I  counted  the  hours,  as  I  sat  shivering  in  the 
railway  coach,  until  we  arrived.  The  recollection  of  the 
scorching  sun  and  the  burning  air  of  Spain  makes  the  cool, 
subdued  tints  of  this  beautiful  city  seem  refreshing  to  my 
senses,  and  I  think  with  delight  of  the  ceramics  of  the 
Louvre— I  who  was  bored  to  death  by  the  very  thought  of 
them  before. 

Julian  thought  I  should  not  return  until  much  later— and 
then,  ill ;  that  perhaps,  indeed,  I  should  not  return  at  all. 


270  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

Ah,  how  sweet  is  sympathy  ! — and  above  all,  how  sweet 
is  art ! 


Tuesday,  November  15. — I  have  shown  Julian  a  sketch 
of  a  picture,  which  he  approves  of.  But  he  no  longer 
inspires  me  with  confidence  ;  he  looks  confused  when  he 
speaks  to  me  ;  in  short,  I  can  imagine  what  he  is  thinking 
about. 

Tony  is  still  left  me,  but  I  have  not  cultivated  his  friend- 
ship as  I  have  Julian's,  and  then — well,  we  shall  see. 

Thursday,  November  17. — Yesterday  I  could  scarcely 
drag  myself  about ;  my  throat  pained  me,  my  chest  pained 
me,  my  back  pained  me,  I  coughed,  1  had  a  cold  in  the 
head,  I  could  swallow  nothing,  and  I  was  hot  and  cold  by 
turns  a  dozen  times  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

I  am  a  little  better  to-day,  but  that  is  not  saying  much, 
considering  that  I  am  now,  and  have  been  for  a  long  time 
past,  under  the  care  of  the  greatest  physicians  in  the  world  ! 
For  ever  since  the  time  when  I  first  lost  my  voice  they 
have  been  treating  me.  Yes,  that  is  the  ring  of  Polycrates 
that  I  have  thrown  into  the  sea, — very  much  against  my 
will,  it  is  true. 

Monday,  November  21. — They  sent  for  Potain  on  Wednes- 
day ;  he  came  to-day  ;  in  the  mean  time  I  might  have  died. 

I  knew  very  well  that  he  would  again  order  me  South  ;  I 
set  my  teeth  hard,  and  my  voice  trembled,  and  it  was  only 
by  an  effort  that  I  could  keep  back  my  tears. 

To  go  South  !  That  is  to  acknowledge  myself  con- 
quered. And  the  persecutions  of  my  family  make  it  a 
point  of  honor  with  me  to  keep  on  my  feet,  in  any  case. 
To  go  away  would  be  to  give  all  the  vermin  of  the  studio 
cause  for  triumph — to  make  them  say,  "  She  is  very  ill ; 
they  have  taken  her  South." 


iSSi.J         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEI 1.  271 

Tuesday,  November  22. — I  cannot  describe  the  feeling  of 
despair  which  this  banishment  to  the  South  would  cause 
me.  I  should  feel  as  if  everything  were  ended — I  who 
came  back  intoxicated  with  the  idea  of  leading  a  quiet  life— 
a  life  devoted  to  study — hard  study,  study  without  relaxa- 
tion ;  of  keeping  up  with  the  times.  And  now  to  see  all 
this  at  an  end  ! 

And  while  the  others  are  steadily  progressing  here  in 
Paris,  the  home  of  art,  I  shall  be  down  there  doing  nothing, 
or  making  futile  attempts  to  paint  a  picture  in  the  open  air, 
which  is  something  frightfully  difficult  to  do. 

There  is  Breslau— it  is  not  her  picture  of  a  peasant 
woman  that  has  won  her  a  reputation — my  heart  is  ready  to 
break  at  the  thought  of  it  all ! 

This  evening  I  saw  Charcot,  who  says  the  disease  is  no 
worse  than  it  was  last  year  ;  as  for  the  trouble  I  have  had 
for  the  past  six  days,  it  is  a  simple  cold  that  I  shall  soon  be 
well  of.  In  regard  to  my  going  South,  he  thinks  as  Potain 
does — I  must  either  go  there  or  shut  myself  up  in  the  house 
like  a  prisoner.  Otherwise  I  run  the  risk  of  being  seriously 
ill,  seeing  that  the  right  lung  is  affected,  although  it  appears 
there  is  still  some  hope  of  my  getting  well ;  it  is  a  curable 
disease,  confined  to  one  spot,  and  it  grows  no  worse,  not- 
withstanding my  pretended  imprudences.  They  said  the 
same  thing  last  year,  about  going  South,  and  I  would  not 
even  listen  to  them.  Now  I  hesitate,  and  I  have  done 
nothing  since  four  o'clock  but  cry  at  the  thought  of  leaving 
Paris,  and  again  interrupting  my  studies. 

It  is  true  that  if  I  am  to  be  often  as  ill  as  I  have  been  for 
these  last  few  days  I  should  profit  little  by  remaining  in 
Paris. 

To  yield,  to  acknowledge  myself  beaten,  to  say  "  Yes, 
the  doctors  are  right,— yes,  I  am  ill  "—this  is  the  thought 
that  renders  me  desperate. 


272  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

Saturday,  November  26. — I  was  to  have  gone  to  see  Tony, 
as  you  may  remember,  to  show  him  my  sketch,  and  decide 
upon  some  subject  for  a  picture,  that  I  was  to  paint  under 
his  guidance ;  but  I  have  not  left  the  house.  I  am  weak, 
and  I  can  eat  nothing  ;  I  am  probably  still  feverish.  It  is 
horribly  sad  to  be  kept  in  this  state  of  inaction  by — by — I 
don't  know  what,  by  want  of  strength;  in  short,  Charcot  has 
resumed  his  visits. 

Mamma  and  Dina  arrived  yesterday,  recalled  by  the  fool- 
ish dispatches  of  my  aunt.  This  morning  Dina  received  a 
letter  from  her  sister  asking  how  I  was. 

I  have  taken  cold,  I  know,  but  that  might  happen  to 
any  one. 

But  no  ;  everything  is  ended  ;  my  hearing  is  in  a  deplor- 
able state  with  this  cold  and  this  fever.  What  can  I  aspire 
to  ?  What  can  I  attain  to  ?  There  is  no  longer  anything  to 
hope  for.  It  is  as  if  a  veil  had  been  torn  from  before  my 
eyes,  that  day  nearly  a  week  ago.  Everything  is  at  an 
end — everything,  everything. 

Tuesday,  November  29. — Well,  this  has  lasted  now  for 
fourteen  days,  and  will  probably  last  fourteen  days  longer. 
Madame  Nachet  brought  me  a  bunch  of  violets  to-day, 
which  I  accepted  as  any  one  might  have  done,  for  notwith- 
standing the  fever,  which  has  not  left  me  for  two  weeks,  and 
a  congestion  of  the  right  lung,  otherwise  pleurisy,  and  two 
blisters,  I  have  not  yet  given  in  ;  1  get  up  every  day  and 
act  in  every  way  like  an  ordinary  person,  only  the  quinine 
makes  me  deaf.  The  other  night  I  thought  I  should  die  of 
terror,  because  I  could  no  longer  hear  the  ticking  of  my 
watch  ;  and  it  seems  I  must  go  on  taking  it. 

Otherwise  I  feel  almost  strong,  and  if  it  were  not  that  I 
have  been  able  to  swallow  nothing  for  the  last  fortnight,  I 
should  scarcely  be  aware  that  I  am  ill. 

But  my  work,  my  picture,  my  poor  picture  !     It  is  now 


i$8i.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASttKIRTSEFF.  273 


the  ZQth  of  November,  and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  com- 
mence it  before  the  end  of  December  ;  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  finish  it  in  two  months  and  a  half.  What  a  piece  of  ill- 
luck  !  And  how  useless  it  is  when  one  has  been  born  to 
misfortune  to  struggle  against  Fate  !  You  see  painting 
was  a  sort  of  refuge  for  me,  and  now  at  times  I  can  hardly 
hear  ;  the  consequences  of  this  are  the  greatest  embarrass- 
ment with  the  models,  continual  anguish  of  spirit,  and  the 
impossibility  of  painting  a  portrait  unless  I  make  up  my 
mind  to  acknowledge  my  infirmity  —  a  thing  I  have  not  yet 
the  courage  to  do.  Then  this  illness,  the  impossibility  of 
going  on  with  my  work,  and  the  necessity  of  shutting  myself 
up  in  the  house  for  a  month.  It  is  too  much  ! 

Dina  never  leaves  me  ;  she  is  so  good  ! 

Paul  and  his  wife  arrived  yesterday.  The  Gavfnis  and 
Gery,  Bojidar  and  Alexis  also  came.  And  I  try  to  keep  up 
my  courage  and  extricate  myself  from  the  embarrassing 
situations  that  are  continually  presenting  themselves,  by 
dint  of  joking  and  bravado. 

The  doctors  are  the  subjects  of  our  pleasantries  just  now. 
As  Potain  cannot  come  himself  every  day,  he  has  sent  me  a 
doctor  who  will  come  in  his  stead. 

And  this  serves  to  amuse  me,  because  I  pretend  to  be 
crazy,  and  avail  myself  of  this  pretended  madness  to  give 
utterance  to  the  wildest  nonsense. 

Wednesday,  November  30.—  Julian  was  here  last  evening; 
I  could  see  by  his  affected  cheerfulness  that  he  thinks  me 
very  ill  ;  as  for  me,  I  am  in  the  deepest  affliction  ;  I  can  do 
nothing,  and  my  picture  is  at  a  standstill.  But  worst  of  all 
is  to  be  able  to  do  nothing  !  Can  you  conceive  the  anguish 
of  that  ?  To  stay  with  your  arms  hanging  idly  by  your 
sides  while  others  are  studying,  progressing  in  their  work, 
preparing  their  pictures  ! 

I  thought  that  God  had  left  me  painting  as  a  refuge  from 


2 74  JOURNAL  OF  MA  KIM  BAStiKlRTSEFF.          [1881. 

my  troubles,  and  I  gave  myself  up  entirely  to  it,  and  behold  ! 
it  has  failed  me,  and  now  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  do 
but  weep. 

Thursday,  December  i ;  Fri  ay,  December  2. — The  second 
of  December  already  !  I  ought  to  be  at  my  work  ;  I  ought 
to  be  looking  for  the  draperies  for  my  picture,  and  the 
large  vase  which  figures  in  the  background.  But  why  these 
details  ?  They  only  serve  to  make  me  shed  tears.  Yet  I 
feel  much  stronger  ;  I  eat,  I  sleep,  I  am  almost  as  well  as 
usual. 

But  there  is  congestion  of  the  left  lung.  That  on  the 
right  side — the  chronic  trouble — is  better,  it  seems  ;  but 
that  is  of  no  consequence ;  it  is  the  acute  attack,  which 
might  Be  cured,  that  will  keep  me  shut  up  in  the  house  for 
a  few  weeks  longer.  It  is  enough  to  make  one  go  drown 
one's-self. 

Ah,  how  cruel  it  is  of  God  to  afflict  me  in  this  way  !  I 
had  my  annoyances — family  troubles — but  they  did  not 
touch  my  inmost  heart.  I  had  extraordinary  hopes  of  being 
a  great  singer — and  I  lose  my  voice  ;  this  was  the  first 
blow  ;  finally  I  become  accustomed  to  the  loss,  I  resign 
myself  to  it,  I  get  over  it,  I  console  myself  for  it. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  Fate  steps  in  and  says,  "  since  you 
have  accommodated  yourself  to  this,  you  shall  be  deprived 
of  the  power  of  working." 

I  can  neither  study,  nor  work  on  my  picture,  nor  do  any- 
thing eise.  Here  is  a  delay  of  a  whole  winter. — I,  who  had 
put  all  my  life  into  my  work.  Only  those  who  have  been 
situated  as  I  am,  can  understand  me. 

Wednesday,  December  7. — What  exasperates  me  most  is 
my  illness  ;  yesterday  the  horrible  sub-Potain,  who  comes  to 
see  me  once  a  clay,  as  the  great  man  can  only  put  himself 
out  twice  a  week  to  do  so — the  sub-Potain  asked  me,  as  it 
were  casually,  if  I  were  preparing  for  my  journey. 


I&8I.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEW.  275 

Their  South  !  The  bare  idea  of  it  puts  me  in  a  rage ! 
At  dinner  I  could  not  eat  for  thinking  of  it,  and  if  Julian 
had  not  come  I  should  have  cried  all  the  evening  with  rage. 

Well,  then,  so  much  the  worse!  But  I  will  not  go  to 
their  South. 

Friday,  December  9.— There  is  a  drawing  of  Breslau's  in 
the  Vie  Moderne.  If  I  had  not  cried  so  much  I  might  have 
been  able  to  make  use  of  my  time  while  I  am  ill  in  making 
rough  draughts  and  sketches ;  but  my  hands  are  still 
trembling. 

The  lung  is  now  free  from  the  congestion,  but  the  tem- 
perature is  still  38  degrees.  I  am  playing  but  a  sorry  part, 
however,  in  giving  you  all  these  details. 

I  feel  that  there  is  no  hope  for  me,  and  I  dare  not  ask  a 
question  lest  I  should  hear  of  Breslau's  next  success. 

Ah,  my  God,  hear  me,  grant  me  strength,  have  pity  upon 
me ! 


Thursday,  December  15. — Here  are  four  weeks  and  two 
days  that  I  have  been  ill.  When  the  sub-Potain  came  I 
made  a  scene  by  beginning  to  cry.  He  did  not  know  what 
course  to  pursue  in  order  to  quiet  me;  for  abandoning  the 
subterfuges,  nonsensical  excuses,  and  other  delightful  things 
with  which  I  am  in  the  habit  of  regaling  him,  I  began  to  utter 
complaints  and  to  shed  genuine  tears,  my  hair  falling  loose 
about  my  shoulders  the  while.  I  stammered  my  infantile 
complaints  to  him  in  the  language  of  a  child.  And  to  think 
that  I  did  it  all  in  cold  blood,  and  that  I  did  not  mean  a 
word  of  what  I  said!  And  so  it  is  with  me  when  I  take 
part  in  a  real  play — I  grow  pale  in  earnest,  and  I  shed  genu- 
ine tears;  in  short,  I  think  I  should  make  a  magnificent 
actress ;  but  for  the  present  all  I  can  do  is  to  cough,  and  I 
have  scarcely  even  breath  enough  left  me  for  that. 

Monsieur  my   father  arrived  this  morning.     Everything 


276  JOUKATAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

goes  on  very  well,  with  the  exception  of  Paul's  poor  wife, 
who  is  quite  disillusionized,  seeing  an  indifference  toward 
her  on  his  part  that  is  little  short  of  hostility.  As  for  me  I 
am  all  that  is  right  in  regard  to  her ;  I  gave  her  a  very 
beautiful  emerald  given  me  by  mamma,  and  for  which  I 
have  no  use. 

I  was  a  little  sorry  for  it  afterward:  I  might  have  given  it 
to  Dina,  who  adores  jewels;  but  there  is  no  help  for  it  now. 

I  do  not  say  that  papa  is  irritating;  on  the  contrary,  he 
resembles  me  a  little,  physically  as  well  as  mentally  (this  is 
a  compliment  to  him),  but  he  will  never  be  able  to  under- 
stand me. 

Imagine  that  he  has  conceived  the  project  of  taking  us  to 
our  country  to  spend  Easter. 

No,  it  is  too  much ;  it  is  too  great  a  want  of  consideration, 
in  the  present  state  of  my  health  to  speak  of  taking  me  to 
Russia  in  February  or  March !  I  leave  it  to  your  own 
judgment.  But  let  that  pass — not  to  speak  of  all  the  rest! 
Ah,  no,  I  who  refused  to  go  South!  No,  no,  no!  Let  us 
speak  no  more  of  it,  decidedly,  not. 

Sunday,  December  18. — I  have  been  telling  my  trouble  to 
Julian ;  and  after  doing  his  best  to  console  me,  he  advised 
me  to  sketch  every  day  whatever  I  saw  that  chanced  to 
strike  me.  What  is  there  to  strike  me?  What  do  you 
suppose  I  should  find  to  strike  me  in  the  surroundings 
amidst  which  I  live?  Breslau  is  poor,  but  she  lives  in  an  emi- 
nently artistic  sphere ;  Marie's  best  friend  is  a  musician; 
Schoeppi,  although  of  the  people,  is  original ;  and  there  is 
Sara  Purser,  artiste  and  philosopher,  with  whom  one  may 
hold  discussions  on  the  philosophy  of  Kant,  on  life,  on  the 
ego,  and  on  death,  that  stimulate  thought,  and  that  impress 
upon  the  mind  what  one  has  heard  or  read — everything  is 
artistic,  even  to  the  neighborhood  in  which  she  lives,  Les 
Ternes.  And  the  neighborhood  in  which  I  live,  so  clean, 


:88i.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  27) 

so  regular,  where  not  a  sign  of  poverty  is  to  be  seen,  not  a 
tree  that  is  not  trimmed,  not  a  street  that  is  not  straight. 
Do  I,  then,  complain  of  my  fate?  No,  but  I  wish  to  say 
that  easy  circumstances  tend  to  prevent  the  development  of 
artistic  talent,  and  that  the  environment  in  which  one  lives 
is  half  the  individual. 

Wednesday,  December  21. — To-day  I  went  out  for  a 
drive!  But  wrapped  in  furs,  the  carriage-windows  closed, 
and  a  bear-skin  around  my  feet.  Potain  said  this  morning 
that  I  might  go  out  if  the  wind  ceased,  and  if  I  took  pre- 
cautions. The  weather  is  splendid — and  as  for  precautions ! 

But  that  is  not  the  question;  it  is  Breslau  "that  will  not 
let  go  her  prey."  My  picture  for  the  Salon  is  accepted. 
What  shall  I  have  to  show  beside  her  picture  this  summer? 

This  girl  is  a  power  in  my  life ;  there  are  others,  it  is 
true ;  but  she  and  I  are  of  the  same  cage,  not  to  say  of  the 
same  nest,  and  I  divined  her  genius  from  the  beginning, 
and  announced  it  to  you,  little  as  I  then  knew  of  art.  I 
despise  myself;  I  refuse  to  believe  that  I  have  any  talent;  I 
cannot  understand  why  Julian  and  Tony  should  speak  of 
me  as  they  do;  I  am  nothing;  I  have  nothing  in  me. 
Compaied  with  Breslau  I  seem  to  myself  like  a  thin  and 
fragile  pasteboard  box  compared  to  a  massive  and  richly 
carved  oaken  casket.  I  despair  of  myself,  and  so  convinced 
am  I  of  my  worthlessness  that  if  I  were  to  say  what  I  think 
to  the  masters  I  should  convert  them  to  my  opinion. 

But  I  will  go  forward  blindly,  all  the  same,  my  hands 
stretched  out  before  me,  groping  for  the  light,  ready  to  be 
engulfed  if  it  must  be  so. 

Thursday,  December  29.— It  is  a  week  since  I  have 
written  anything  in  my  diary;  this  will  show  you  that  my 
glorious  existence  has  been  divided  between  work  and 
society.  There  is  nothing  new;  and  yet  there  is,  for  I  am 


278  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1881. 

well  and  I  go  out  as  usual.  I  went  on  Saturday  to  have 
some  new  gowns  fitted,  to  the  Bois,  and  to  Julian's,  with 
mamma  and  Dina.  And  on  Sunday  I  went  to  church,  so 
that  they  may  not  say  I  am  at  the  point  of  death,  as  the 
charming  Bertha  tells  every  one. 

On  the  contrary  I  have  gained  new  life;  my  arms,  that 
were  so  thin  ten  days  ago,  are  now  rounded ;  that  is  to  say, 
that  I  am  much  better  than  I  was  before  my  illness. 

A  week  more  of  this  and  I  shall  have  to  stop  growing  fat; 
I  shall  be  just  right  then ;  for  I  do  not  wish  to  have  again 
the  large  hips  I  had  three  years  ago.  Julian,  who  came  to 
see  me  last  night,  thinks  my  figure  much  better  as  it  is  now. 
We  laughed  all  the  evening.  I  am  painting  the  portrait  of 
Paul's  wife.  Yesterday  I  had  so  far  recovered  my  energy 
that  I  wanted  to  paint,  all  at  once,  the  portraits  of  Dina, 
Nini,  and  Irma. 

Fiiday,  December  30. — They  have  spent  the  whole  day 
here  quarreling.  In  order  to  recover  my  tranquillity  I  went 
to  see  Tony,  taking  with  me  the  sketch  of  the  portrait  of 
Paul's  wife,  to  shew  him.  He  thought  it  very  original  in 
treatment  and  well  begun.  The  sympathetic  Tony  seemed 
delighted  at  seeing  me  in  good  health  again.  After  chatting 
gaily  together  on  different  matters  we  touched  on  the  serious 
subject  of  art,  speaking  of  Breslau  in  connection  with  it, 
among  other  things.  "Her  picture  is  certainly  very  good," 
he  said;  "she  is  richly  endowed." 

Ah,  it  would  be  impossible  to  transcribe  my  feelings 
here — to  describe  the  fever,  the  fire,  that  consumes  me. 
Oh,  I  must  work  day  and  night,  without  ceasing,  to  pro- 
duce something  that  shall  have  merit!  True,  he  told  me 
that  the  day  I  wished  I  might  produce  a  picture  equal  to 
any  of  hers;  true,  he  thinks  I  have  as  much  talent  as  she 
has,  but  I  am  ready  to  weep,  to  die,  to  hide  myself  any- 
where— \vhere  I  might  be  able — But  would  I  be  able?  Ah, 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  279 

Tony  has  confidence  in  me,  but  I  have  no  confidence  in 
myself.  I  am  consumed  by  the  desire  to  accomplish  some- 
thing,  and  I  know  my  own  powerlessness— But  here  I  must 
stop.  As  my  readers  no  doubt  take  me  literally,  they 
might  believe  what  I  say  to  be  true— whereas  I  only  say 
these  things  in  the  hope  of  being  contradicted. 

Ah,  heavens!  I  spend  my  time  writing  down  all  this, 
and  selecting  words  in  which  to  describe  the  annoyances  I 
suffer,  while  Breslau,  wiser  than  I,  spends  hers  drawing  and 
painting. 


l882. 

The  thing  I  take  most  delight  in  is  my  painting;  I  do  not 
feel  myself  worthy  of  saying,  "  my  art."  In  order  to  speak 
of  art  we  must  first  have  won  a  name  ;  otherwise  one  has 
the  air  of  an  amateur,  who  deserves  only  to  be  laughed  at. 

Wednesday,  January  4. — Julian  spent  the  evening  rally- 
ing me  on  my  liking  for  Tony,  and  on  his  for  me.  At 
midnight  we  took  chocolate.  Dina  was  very  amiable. 

I  always  dress  with  particular  care,  and  in  an  entirely 
different  fashion  from  other  times,  when  I  go  among  art- 
ists— in  long  gowns,  and  flowing  draperies  ;  in  society  my 
waist  would  not  be  found  sufficiently  slender  nor  my  gown 
sufficiently  fashionable  ;  so  that  all  my  pretty  fancies — too 
extravagant  for  the  world  of  society — will  serve  me  in  my 
ministry  of  the  Fine  Arts  ;  I  still  cherish  the  dream  of  hav- 
ing a  salon  that  shall  be  frequented  by  every  one  of  note. 

Friday,  January  6. — Art,  even  in  the  case  of  the  hum- 
blest of  its  votaries,  elevates  the  soul,  and  makes  one  supe- 
rior in  some  degree  to  those  who  are  not  of  the  sacred 
fraternity. 


280  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1882. 

Wednesday,  January  n. — To-morrow,  our  New  Year's 
Eve,  we  give  a  soiree  ;  they  have  been  making  preparations 
for  it  for  the  last  week  ;  more  than  two  hundred  arid  fifty 
invitations  have  been  sent  out,  for  a  great  many  of  our 
friends  have  made  requests  for  them.  As  no  one  is  receiv- 
ing yet,  this  will  be  an  event,  and  I  think  we  shall  have 
some  very  chic  people.  In  short,  it  will  be  a  pleasant  affair. 
Etincelle  makes  allusion  to  it  in  her  notes  in  Figaro,  adding 
a  eulogy  of  M-lle.  Marie,  who  is  beautiful  and  an  artist, 
etc.,  etc.  But  even  if  she  had  said  nothing  of  all  this,  I 
should  still  regard  her  as  the  most  charming  of  ugly  peo- 
ple ;  there  are  fifty  women  I  know  who  are  not  so  attract- 
ive as  she  is,  and  then  she  bears  the  undefinable  Parisian 
stamp,  as  well  as  the  stamp  of  a  person  of  note.  Observe 
well  what  I  say,  for  it  is  profoundly  true — all  people  of 
note,  whether  they  be  men,  women,  or  children,  young  or 
old,  have  a  certain  tone  in  the  voice,  a  certain  air,  which  is 
the  same  among  them  all,  and  which  I  will  call  the  family 
likeness  of  persons  of  celebrity. 

We  are  to  have  the  two  Coquelins.  The  elder  Coquelin 
came  yesterday  to  inspect  the  rooms,  and  to  consult  with 
us  respecting  the  pieces.  G was  present,  and  he  dis- 
gusted me  with  the  airs  he  gave  himself  of  being  a  con- 
noisseur— a  little  more  and  he  would  have  taken  it  upon 
himself  to  advise  Coquelin,  who  is  very  agreeable,  by  the 
way,  a  very  good  fellow,  who  does  not  make  you  feel,  the 
moment  you  speak  to  him,  that  sort  of  embarrassment 
which  so  many  people  experience  in  the  presence  of  any 
one  of  note. 

Friday,  January  13. — The  two  Coquelins  were  superb  ; 
and  the  rooms  presented  a  charming  appearance  ;  there 
were  a  number  of  pretty  women  present — the  enchanting 
trio,  the  Marquise  de  Reverseaux,  the  daughter  of  Janvier 
de  la  Motte,  Mme.  Thouvenel  and  Mme.  de  Joly,  the 


i882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKJRTSEFF,  281 

Countess  de  Kessler, — in  short,  almost  all  the  women  were 
pretty,  and,  in  the  words  of  Tony  (who  did  not  come,  how- 
ever, nor  did  Julian),  "very  desirable  guests."  Muie.G 

was  enchanted,  and  finished  the  evening  by  dancing  with 
Count  Plater. 

The  reception  was  preceded  by  a  dinner. 

As  for  artists,  the  brother  of  Bastien-Lepage  is  still 
absent ;  so  he  was  not  with  us  (on  Thursday  we  are  to  visit 
the  real  Bastien-Lepage)  ;  there  was  George  Bertrand,  who 
exhibited  last  year  an  admirable  and  touching  picture  called 
Le  Drapeau.  I  alluded  to  it  in  a  notice,  and  he  wrote  me 
a  few  amiable  words  in  return.  I  sent  him  an  invitation 
signed  "Pauline  Orell."  It  was  Pollack  who  presented 
him  to  me.  It  was  very  amusing — he  paid  me  a  great 
many  fine  compliments,  for,  although  I  wished  to  hide 
them,  Dina  showed  some  of  my  studies  to  such  of  our 
guests  as  she  thought  had  a  right  to  see  them.  Carrier- 
Belleuse  succumbed  to  the  power  of  my  eyes,  and  toward 
the  end  of  the  evening  grew  quite  tender  and  sentimental. 

Here  is  a  man  who  is  capable  of  falling  very  much  in 
love  ;  perhaps  he  has  done  so  already  ;  but — 

We  had  supper  at  three  o'clock  ;  Gabriel  sat  on  my  right ; 
about  sixty  persons  had  remained.  Nini  was  charming, 
and  looked  very  pretty  :  her  shoulders  were  dazzling,  and 
she  wore  an  exquisite  gown,  as  did  Dina,  mamma,  and  my 
aunt.  I  wore  a  gown  made  by  Doucet  and  myself  in  part- 
nership, an  almost  faithful  reproduction  of  Greuze's  Cruche 
Casste.  I  wore  my  hair  loose  in  front  and  fastened  in  a 
knot  on  the  back  of  the  head,  high  above  the  neck.  A  long 
chain  of  Bengal  roses  with  loose  leaves  lost  itself  among  the 
folds  of  the  short  skirt,  which  was  of  silk  mull,  pleated  ;  the 
bodice  was  of  satin,  laced  in  front,  and  very  long,  with  a 
handkerchief  crossed  over  the  breast.  There  was  a  second 
skirt  of  mull,  turned  up  with  satin,  open  in  front,  and 
gathered  up  behind,  forming  panniers,  of  which  one  was 


282  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

covered  with  roses.  I  looked  charming.  The  odious  sub- 
Potain  followed  me  like  a  shadow  so  as  to  catch  me  if  I 
should  attempt  to  dance. 

Sunday,  January  15. — There  was  a  long  article  of 
Etincelle's  about  our  soiree,  but,  as  we  had  expected  this 
article,  mamma  and  my  aunt  were  not  satisfied  with  it.  She 
compares  me  to  the  Cruche  CassJe,  and  they  are  afraid  that 
this  may  be  taken  in  Poltava  as  an  insult.  They  are  too 
stupid  !  The  article  is  very  good,  only  that,  as  she  had 
said  two  days  ago  that  I  was  one  of  the  prettiest  women  of 
the  Russian  Empire,  and  she  contents  herself  this  time  with 
describing  my  gown,  I  am  rather  disappointed. 

I  am  wrapped  up  in  my  art.  I  think  I  caught  the  sacred 
fire  in  Spain  at  the  same  time  that  I  caught  the  pleurisy. 
From  being  a  student  I  now  begin  to  be  an  artist.  This 
sudden  influx  of  power  puts  me  beside  myself  with  joy.  I 
sketch  future  pictures  ;  I  dream  of  painting  an  Ophelia. 
Potain  has  promised  to  take  me  to  Saint-Anne  to  study  the 
faces  of  the  mad  women  there,  and  then  I  am  full  of  the 
idea  of  painting  an  old  man,  an  Arab,  sitting  down  singing 
to  the  accompaniment  of  a  kind  of  guitar ;  and  I  am 
thinking  also  of  a  large  affair  for  the  coming  Salon — a  view 
of  the  Carnival  ;  but  for  this  it  would  be  necessary  that  I 
should  go  to  Nice — to  Naples  first  for  the  Carnival,  and 
then  to  Nice,  where  I  have  my  villa,  to  paint  it  in  the  open 
air.  I  say  all  this,  and  yet  I  wish  to  remain  here. 

Saturday,  January  21. — Madame   C came    to   take 

me  to  see  Bastien-Lepage.  We  found  there  two  or  three 
American  women,  and  the  little  Bastien-Lepage  himself ; 
he  is  very  small,  very  fair,  wears  his  hair  a  la  Bretonne*  has 
a  retrousst  nose  and  the  beard  of  a  youth.  I  was  altogether 
taken  aback.  I  adore  his  painting,  but  it  is  impossible  tc 

*  Cut  square  across  the  forehead. 


1 8S2J         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  283 

regard  him  with  the  respect  due  to  a  master.  You  want  to 
treat  him  as  a  comrade,  and  his  paintings  are  there  to  fill 
you  with  admiration,  astonishment,  and  envy.  There  are 
four  or  five  of  them,  all  life-size,  and  painted  from  nature. 
They  are  admirable  ;  one  of  them  represents  a  little  girl  of 
eight  qr  ten  guarding  some  cows  in  a  field  ;  the  tree  stripped 
of  its  foliage,  and  the  cow  resting  under  its  branches,  are 
touchingly  poetic  ;  the  eyes  of  the  little  girl  have  a  look  of 
childlike  dreaminess  in  them— the  dreaminess  of  one  who 
lives  in  companionship  with  nature— that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  describe.  He  has  the  air  of  a  good  little  man  who 
is  very  well  satisfied  with  himself — this  Bastien. 

I  returned  home  in  time  to  help  mamma  to  receive  a 
number  of  visitors.  This  is  what  it  is  to  give  soirees  in 
Paris,  you  see,  as  one  of  our  friends  says. 

Saturday,  January  22. — For  the  time  being  I  am  full  of  the 
idea  of  the  Carnival  ;  I  am  making  sketches  for  it  in  char- 
coal. If  I  only  had  the  genius,  it  would  be  delightful  to 
paint  it. 

Monday,  January  30. — It  is  decided  that  we  are  to  go 
to  the  Villa  Gery  at  Nice.  I  spent  a  delightful  day  on 
Saturday.  Bastien,  whom  I  had  seen  the  evening  before 
at  the  ball  given  at  the  Continental  Hotel  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Breton  life-savers,  and  presided  over  by  the  Queen, 
came  to  see  me  and  remained  more  than  an  hour.  I 
showed  him  some  things  of  mine,  and  he  gave  me  his  opin- 
ion respecting  them  with  a  flattering  severity.  And  then 
he  said  I  was  maivelously  gifted.  And  it  did  not  seem  as  if 
this  was  a  compliment  merely.  For  the  moment  I  was  so 
overcome  with  joy  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  taking  the 
good  man's  face  between  my  hands,  and  kissing  him. 

I  am  very  well  pleased,  however,  to  have  heard  his 
opinion.  He  gives  me  the  same  advice  as  Tony  and  Julian, 


2 84  JO  URNAL  OF  MARIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.          [1882. 

and  says  the  very  same  things.  And  then  is  he  not  a  pupil 
of  Cabanel  ?  Every  artist  has  his  own  peculiar  tempera- 
ment, but  as  far  as  the  grammar  of  the  art  is  concerned,  it 
is  necessary  to  learn  it  from  a  master.  Neither  Bastien  nor 
any  one  else  can  communicate  his  gifts  to  another.  Noth- 
ing can  be  learned  but  what  may  be  taught  ;  the  rest  de- 
pends upon  one's-self. 

Mme.  de  Peronny  (Etincelle)  came  to-day,  and  I  spent  a 
delightful  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  company  of  this  super- 
ior woman  and  great  artist,  first  seated  around  the  fire, 
and  afterward  under  the  palm.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  our 
other  visitors,  whom  I  left  in  the  official  drawing-room  with 
mamma. 

s 

NICE. — We  left  Paris  at  eight  in  the  evening,  Paul,  Dina, 
I,  Nini,  Rosalie,  Basili  and  Coco.  The  Villa  Gery  is  all  that 
we  could  desire,  and  is  situated  in  the  open  country  only 
ten  minute's  distance  from  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  ;  it 
has  gardens  and  a  terrace,  and  is  a  large  and  comfortable 
house. 

We  found  everything  ready  to  receive  us  ;  and  M.  Pi- 
coux,  the  agent,  had  bouquets  for  each  of  us. 

I  took  a  trip  on  the  tramway  this  evening  that  delighted 
me  ;  there  was,  in  what  I  saw,  a  blending  of  the  Italian 
and  the  French  gayety,  but  without  any  of  the  vulgarity 
that  is  to  be  met  with  among  the  populace  of  Paris.  As  I 
wrote  to  Julian,  life  here  is  as  comfortable  as  it  is  in  Paris, 
and  as  picturesque  as  it  is  in  Grenada.  Within  five  yards 
of  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  are  to  be  found  so  many  dif- 
ferent costumes,  so  many  different  types  of  humanity,  and 
all  so  picturesque  !  Why  go  to  Spain  ?  Oh,  the  South  ! 
Oh,  Nice  !  Oh,  the  Mediterranean  !  Oh,  my  beloved 
country,  through  which  I  have  suffered  so  much  !  Oh,  my 
earliest  joys,  and  my  profoundest  griefs  !  Oh,  my  child- 
hood, my  ambitious  dreams  ! 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF,  285 

Try  how  I  will,  those  days  will  always  form  an  epoch  in 
my  existence,  and  side  by  side  with  the  recollection  of  the 
sufferings  that  darkened  my  early  youth  will  remain  the 
recollection  of  its  joys — joys  that  will  remain  forever  the 
sweetest  flowers  of  memory. 

I  am  boiling  over  with  rage.  Wolff  has  devoted  a  dozen 
lines — as  flattering  as  they  could  possibly  be — to  Breslau. 

But  after  all  I  am  not  to  blame  ;  one  does  what  one  can. 
She  has  nothing  to  occupy  her  attention  but  her  art ;  while 
I  invent  new  fashions  for  my  gowns,  I  devise  new  ways  of 
arranging  draperies,  I  think  of  how  to  be  revenged  or.  the 
society  of  Nice.  I  do  not  say  that  I  should  have  her  talent 
even  if  I  were  to  do  as  she  does  ;  she  obeys  the  instincts  of 
her  nature,  I  those  of  mine.  But  my  hands  are  tied.  The 
trouble  is  that  I  am  so  convinced  of  my  powerlessness  as  to 
be  tempted  at  times  to  give  it  all  up.  Julian  says  I  might 
to  do  as  well  as  she  does  if  I  wished.  If  I  wished — but  in 
order  to  have  the  wish  it  is  necessary  to  have  the  power. 
Those  who  have  succeeded  because  they  willed  to  succeed 
were  sustained  by  a  secret  strength  which  is  wanting  in  me. 
And  only  to  think  that  at  times  I  have  not  only  faith  in  my 
future  power  to  succeed,  but  that  I  feel  burn  within  me  the 
sacred  fire  of  genius  !  Oh,  misery  ! 

But  here,  at  least,  no  one  is  to  blame,  and  that  is  less 
maddening.  There  is  nothing  more  horrible  than  to  have 
to  say  to  one's-self,  "  If  it  were  not  for  this  or  for  that,  I 
should  have  succeeded,  perhaps."  I  know  that  I  do  all  I 
can,  and  yet  I  have  accomplished  nothing. 

0  my  God,  grant  that  I  may  deceive  myself,  and  that  the 
feeling  I  now  have  of  my  mediocrity  may  be  a  mistaken 
one. 

Friday,  February  10. — I  have  received  so  rude  a  blow  that 
it  has  caused  me  to  spend  three  very  unhappy  days. 

1  shall  not  now  paint  my  large  picture.     I  will  paint  sun- 


2S6  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF,          [1882. 

pier  things — things  more  within  the  compass  of  my  pow- 
ers— studies.  I  have  taken  a  solemn  resolution  not  to  waste 
another  moment,  and  not  to  paint  another  stroke  without 
some  purpose.  I  shall  concentrate  my  powers.  Bastien 
has  advised  me  to  do  this,  and  so  have  Julian  and  the  for- 
tunate Breslau.  Yes,  fortunate,  indeed  ;  to  be  as  fortunate 
as  she  is  I  would  give,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  all 
that  people  call  my  happiness  and  my  wealth — a  hundred 
thousand  francs  to  have  independence  and  to  have  talent : 
when  one  has  these,  one  has  everything. 

But  how  fortunate  she  is,  this  girl !  It  makes  me  so 
unhappy  every  time  I  think  of  that  article  of  Wolff's.  Yet 
it  is  not  what  is  called  envy  that  makes  me  feel  this.  I  have 
not  the  heart  to  analyze  this  feeling  and  to  select  words  in 
which  to  describe  it. 

Monday,  February  13. — I  am  making  sketches  in  aquarelle 
for  the  first  time  !  Every  moment  of  the  day  is  occupied, 
and  I  have  decided  on  a  subject  for  my  picture,  for,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  smaller  things,  I  must  take  back  a  large  study 
to  Julian.  It  is  three  little  boys  standing  near  a  gateway  : 
that  seems  to  me  an  interesting  subject,  and  one  that  ad- 
mits of  realistic  treatment.  The  blow  I  received  in  Wolff's 
article  has  done  me  good.  I  was  for  the  moment  crushed, 
annihilated,  and  the  reaction  from  this  feeling  has  given  me 
the  power  to  understand  things  in  art  that  previously  to 
that  had  tormented  me,  for  while  I  suspected  their  existence, 
I  could  not  discover  them.  This  has  compelled  me  to  make 
salutary  exertions.  I  begin  too,  to  understand  now  what  I 
used  to  read  respecting  the  trials  and  struggles  of  artists.  I 
used  to  laugh  at  all  this  as  romantic  stories  that  had  no 
foundation.  That  famous  will  of  Breslau — I  have  called  it 
to  my  aid,  and  I  see  that  it  is  necessary  to  make  great  efforts 
in  order  to  obtain  the  success  that  one  fancies  has  dropped 
down  from  the  skies.  The  thing  is  that  I  have  made  no 


i8S2.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  287 

real  effort  up  to  the  present.  The  extreme  facility  with 
which  I  worked  has  spoiled  me.  Breslau  obtains  good 
results,  but  only  after  working  hard  for  them  ;  as  for  me, 
when  success  does  not  come  at  once,  and  without  effort,  I 
can  do  nothing.  I  must  conquer  this  feeling.  Thus,  in 
sketching  a  picture,  in  making  charcoal  sketches,  for  instance, 
I  found  it  necessary  to  make  great  efforts,  in  order  to  attain 
to  the  desired  purity  of  outline,  and  I  have  succeeded  in 
accomplishing  things  of  which  I  had  before  thought  myself 
incapable,  and  which  I  thought  others  had  accomplished  by 
means  of  tricks,  of  sorcery  almost,  so  difficult  is  it  to  con- 
cede to  others  the  possession  of  those  qualities  in  which  we 
ourselves  are  lacking. 

Wednesday,  February  15. — It  is  only  by  degrees  that  we 
learn  to  see  things  as  they  really  are.  Formerly  all  that  I 
could  see  in  a  picture  was  the  subject  and  the  composition, 
and  now — ah  !  if  I  could  only  copy  what  I  see,  I  should 
produce  something  great.  I  see  the  landscape,  I  see,  and  I 
love  the  landscape,  the  water,  the  air,  the  coloring— the 
coloring  ! 

Monday,  February  27. — After  a  thousand  hesitations  and 
doubts  I  have  destroyed  my  canvas  ;  the  boys  would  not 
pose  ;  attributing  my  want  of  success  in  making  them  do  so 
to  my  own  incapacity,  I  tried  again  and  again,  and  at  last- 
it  was  happily  settled.  The  frightful  little  monsters  moved 
about,  and  laughed  and  cried  and  fought  with  each  other— 
I  shall  simply  make  a  study  of  them  ;  to  make  a  picture 
wonld  be  too  much  torture. 

PARIS,  Thursday,  April  20.— Well,  it  is  not  now  as  it  was 
when  I  came  back  from  Spain.  I  am  not  enchanted  to  see 
Paris  again,  I  am  only  pleased.  Besides,  I  am  so  preoccu- 
pied about  my  painting  that  I  scarcely  know  what  my  feel- 


288  jo  URN  A  L  OF  MARIE  BA  SHKIR  TSEFF.          [  \  882. 

ings  are.  I  tremble  to  think  what  will  be  said  of  it,  and  I 
am  completely  crushed  by  the  thought  of  Breslau,  who  is 
treated  by  the  public  as  if  she  were  already  a  successful 
artist.  I  went  to  see  Julian  yesterday  (we  have  been  in 
Paris  since  yesterday  morning),  and  he  treats  me  no  longer 
as  if  I  were  making  a  serious  pursuit  of  painting.  "  Bril- 
liant, yes,"  he  says,  "but  no  depth,  no  power  of  will."  He 
had  hoped  for,  he  had  expected,  something  better.  All 
this,  told  me  in  the  course  of  our  conversation,  wounded  me 
deeply.  I  shall  wait  until  he  sees  what  I  painted  at  Nice, 
but  I  no  longer  expect  anything  good 

Saturday,  April  22. — No,  what  was  necessary  to  me  in 
order  that  I  should  continue  to  live,  was  genius.  I  can 
never  be  happy  in  the  same  way  as  other  people  are.  To  be 
loved  and  to  be  famous,  as  Balzac  says,  this  is  to  be  happy  ! 
And  to  be  loved  is  only  the  natural  consequence  of  being 
famous.  Breslau,  who  is  thin,  cross-eyed,  and  haggard, 
although  her  face  is  an  interesting  one,  can  never  exercise 
any  feminine  attraction  except  through  her  genius,  while, 
if  I  had  her  talent,  I  should  be  superior  to  any  woman  in 
Paris.  But  that  must  come.  In  the  wild  desire  that  it 
should  come,  I  seem  to  see  a  hope  that  it  will. 

These  journeys,  these  interruptions  to  my  work,  the  lack 
of  advice  and  encouragement — they  are  ruinous.  One  looks 
as  if  one  had  come  back  from  China,  one  knows  nothing  of 
what  is  going  on. 

Ah  !  after  all,  I  think  there  is  nothing  I  love  like  paint- 
ing ;  that  must,  as  I  believe,  procure  me  every  other 
happiness  !  Mistaken  vocation,  mistaken  talent,  mistaken 
hopes  !  And  yet  I  slander  myself.  I  went  to  the  Louvre 
this  morning.  When  one  sees  as  clearly  as  I  do,  one  ought 
to  be  able  to  interpret  what  one  sees.  Formerly  I  had  the 
self-confidence  of  ignorance,  but  for  some  time  past  I  have 
been  able  to  see  things  in  art  that  J  had  never  seen  before. 


1882. ]      JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEI-I-.         289 

This  morning  it  was  Paul  Veronese,  who  appeared  to  me  in 
all  his  splendor,  in  all  his  glory.  What  incomparable  rich- 
ness of  coloring  !  How  explain  the  fact  that  these  glorious 
paintings  have  seemed  to  me  until  now  only  large,  uninter- 
esting pictures,  dull  in  coloring  and  flat  in  execution  !  The 
beauties  to  which  my  eyes  were  before  sealed  I  can  now 
appreciate.  The  celebrated  paintings  that  I  admired  before 
only  out  of  regard  for  the  opinion  of  others,  now  delight 
me  and  hold  me  spellbound.  I  feel  all  the  delicate  grada- 
tions in  the  coloring  ;  I  appreciate  color,  in. short. 

A  landscape  by  Ruysdael  compelled  me  to  return  to  look 
at  it  a  second  time.  A  few  months  ago  I  could  see  in  it 
nothing  of  what  I  saw  there  this  morning — atmosphere, 
space  !  In  short,  it  is  not  painting,  it  is  nature  itself. 
Well,  it  is  because  my  eyes  have  been  practiced  that  I  now 
perceive  these  beauties  that  I  could  not  see  before.  And 
is  it  not  possible  for  the  same  thing  to  happen  with  the 
hand  ? 

Sunday,  April  23.— I  have  just  been  looking  over  the 
studies  I  made  at  Nice.  The  sole  thought  that  they  might 
find  something  to  admire  in  them  makes  a  shiver  run  down 
my  back.  For  Tony,  Julian,  and  Bastien  appear  to  me 
themselves  so  insignificant  compared  to  the  immense  effect 
their  words  are  capable  of  producing  on  me  ! 

I  have  as  yet  formed  no  plans  for  the  future.  On  Mon- 
day I  shall  go  to  the  studio  to  get  into  the  habit  of  regular 
work  again. 

The  sky  is  gray  and  stormy  ;  it  rains,  and  a  piercing  win 
is  blowing  ;  the  state  of  the  elements  is  in  harmony   with 
the  condition  of  my  mind  ;  \vh.it  I   feel  then  is  due  t<>  a 
physical  impression  merely. 

But  there  was  something  else  I  wanted  to  write  abc 
a  few  reflections  concerning  love  suggested  by  something  I 
read  this  morning. 


290  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

Love — this  is  the  inexhaustible  subject.  To  allow  your- 
self to  be  loved  by  a  man  to  whom  you  should  be  so  superior 
that  he  would  regard  you  as  a  goddess  descended  from  the 
skies — this  would  have  a  certain  charm.  To  know  that 
your  glance  would  diffuse  happiness  around — there  is  a 
benevolent  side  to  this  that  is  flattering  to  the  generous  part 
of  one's  nature. 

Tuesday,  April  25. — My  own  anxiety  was  sufficient,  with- 
out seeing  around  me  the  anxious  countenances  of  my 
family,  who  were  all  looking  at  me  to  see  if  I  betrayed  emo- 
tion. Well,  to  sum  up,  this  is  what  Tony  has  said  :  The 
costume  of  Dina  very  good,  very  good  ;  the  man  standing 
on  the  sea-shore  very  good  also ;  the  head  of  The"rese  not 
altogether  bad.  The  tones  of  the  landscape,  however,  do 
not  harmonize  with  the  costumes  ;  the  smaller  landscape  is 
very  good  ;  the  old  man  correct  in  drawing,  but  not  suf- 
ficently  simple,  and  not  sufficiently  something  else — in  fine, 
there  is  something  good  in  it.  "  Well,"  you  will  say,  "  you 
ought  to  be  satisfied."  Ah  !  in  addition  to  all  this  he  said 
I  ought  to  follow  a  conscientious  course  of  study,  and  that 
he  would  pay  particular  attention  to  my  progress  ;  he  also 
said  that  he  was  at  my  disposal  whenever  I  chose  to  send 
for  him. 

I  ought  to  be  satisfied — but  no,  I  am  almost  crushed, 
This  was  not  enough  ;  he  should  have  said  to  me  ;  "  Good, 
this  timeyou  have  succeeded  ;  this  is  good  ;  your  execution 
is  as  good  as  Breslau's,  and  your  other  qualities  are  superior 
to  hers." 

Nothing  less  than  these  words  would  have  satisfied  me; 
or  even  sufficed  to  take  me  out  of  the  despair  in  which  I 
have  been  plunged,  on  account  of  my  painting,  for  more 
than  a  year  past.  Why  should  I  not  be  satisfied  with  all 
these  "  goods  "  ? — when  I  still  keep  in  my  memory  the  "  very 


i882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  291 

good  "  he  bestowed  on  Breslau  for  a  little  picture  she  made 
in  Brittany  two  years  ago. 

Yet  when  he  said  the  same  words  to  me  regarding  the 
little  picture  I  did  at  Nice,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  they  no 
longer  possessed  the  same  value.  And  why  ?  Before  my 
departure  for  Nice  he  said  to  me  that  Breslau's  "  Fisher 
Girl "  was  "  very  good,"  and  now  that  this  same  "  Fisher 
Girl  "  has  been  accepted,  receiving  a  number  3,  he  says  it 
is  "  not  bad,"  only.  In  short,  I  am  not  satisfied.  And 
why  ?  In  the  first  place,  because  my  family  based  such 
extravagant  hopes  on  these  few  studies  of  mine  that  only 
the  most  extravagant  praises  could  satisfy  them  ;  and 
then — nerves,  the  effects  of  the  spring  weather.  Whenever 
I  am  over-excited,  as  I  am  now,  I  feel  a  burning  sensation 
in  my  arms,  just  above  the  elbow  ;  it  is  very  curious ; 
explain  to  me,  ye  learned  doctors,  what  this  means. 

Saturday,  April  29. — I  am  not  a  painter  ;  I  learned  draw- 
ing, as  I  learn  everything,  with  facility — that  is  all.  Yet 
when  I  was  a  child  of  three  I  used  to  draw  profiles  with 
chalk  on  the  whist-tables  in  the  country,  and  afterward, 
and  always.  One  would  swear  it  was  a  true  vocation — and 
yet  you  see  !  But  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,  only  so 
much  time  to  be  lived  through  ;  my  arms  fall  clown  power- 
less by  my  sides.  And  after  all,  what  is  it  that  has  hap- 
pened? Nothing.  Breslau  has  been  studying  much  longer 
than  I — almost  twice  as  long.  Admitting,  then,  that  I  am 
as  gifted  as  she,  things  have  followed  their  natural  course  ; 
I  have  been  painting  for  three  years,  while  she  has  been 
painting  for  five. 

Sunday,  April  30. — Since  morning  I  have  been  watching 
the  varnishing  of  the  pictures,  with  Villevielle,  Alice,  and 
Webb.  I  was  in  black  and  looked  very  well.  I  was  amtisi-d 
to  see  how  many  people  I  know  in  Paris.  C'arolus  Duran 


293         JOURNAL  OP  MARIE  &ASHKIRTSEFF. 

came  to  speak  to  me — this  man  is  fascinating.  Breslau's 
picture  is  hung  very  high,  and  produces  a  deplorable  effect. 
I  was  so  uneasy  on  account  of  her  possible  success  that  this 
was  a  great  consolation.  I  do  not  deny  it.  Her  friends 
came  to  me  in  distress,  to  learn  my  opinion,  and  I  said  that 
I  did  not  think  the  picture  a  very  good  one,  but  that  they 
should  have  given  her  a  better  place. 

The  conclusion  to  this  brilliant  day  was  a  conversation 
with  Julian,  during  which  he  reproached  me  with  wasting 
my  energies,  with  not  justifying  the  magnificent  promise 
I  had  given,  etc.  In  short,  he  thinks  I  have  gone  beyond 
my  depth  ;  so  do  I,  and  we  are  going  to  see  if  I  cannot  be 
brought  into  safe  waters  again.  I  told  him  I  was  aware  of 
this  deplorable  condition  of  things,  that  it  made  me  des- 
perate, and  that  I  thought  all  was  over  with  me  ;  he  re- 
minds me  of  the  clever  things  I  have  done,  and  says  that  a 
sketch  of  mine,  which  he  has  in  his  possession,  makes  every 
one  stop  to  look  at  it,  and  so  on.  Ah,  my  God,  take  me  out 
of  this  state  of  misery  !  God  has  been  good  to  me  in  not 
suffering  me  to  be  killed  outright  by  Breslau — at  least  to- 
day. In  short,  I  know  not  how  to  express  my  thought  that 
it  may  not  seem  a  base  one.  If  her  picture  had  been  what 
I  expected  it  would  be,  that  would  have  been  my  death — in 
the  pitiable  condition  in  which  my  work  is  at  present.  I 
have  not  for  a  single  instant  wished  that  it  might  be  bad — 
that  would  be  ignoble,  but  I  trembled  lest  she  should  meet 
with  a  decided  success.  I  felt  so  strong  an  emotion  on 
opening  the  newspapers  that  perhaps  God  took  pity  on  me. 

Tuesday,  May  9. — Tony  and  Julian  dined  with  us  this 
evening.  I  wore  a  fantastic  costume,  and  we  sat  chatting 
till  half-past  eleven.  Julian  was  very  amusing,  after  the 
champagne,  and  Tony  very  amiable,  very  abstemious,  very 
tranquil,  with  his  fine  head  and  his  languid  air.  One  would 
like  to  stir  to  its  inmost  depths  this  tender  and  melancholy 


1&S2.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASI1KIRTSEFF.  293 

soul  where  all  is  calm  and  still.  I  cannot  imagine  this  pro- 
fessor as  indulging  in  any  strong  emotion.  He  is  dispas- 
sionate and  logical,  and,  where  matters  of  the  heart  are  in 
question,  he  will  quietly  demonstrate  their  causes,  and  their 
progress,  as  if  he  were  explaining  the  qualities  of  a  painting. 
In  a  word,  and  to  sum  up,  as  he  says,  he  is  charming. 

The  portrait  of  a  young  girl,  by  Sargent,  haunts  me  ;  it 
is  ravishing.  It  is  an  exquisite  piece  of  work,  worthy  of  a 
place  beside  the  paintings  of  Vandyke  and  Velasquez. 

Saturday,  May  20. — Ah,  how  discouraged  I  am  !  What 
have  I  accomplished  since  I  came  to  Paris?  I  am  no  longer 
even  eccentric.  And  in  Italy,  what  did  I  accomplish  ? 
Once  I  allowed  myself  to  be  secretly  kissed  by  that  stupid 

A .  Well,  and  afterward?  Ah,  it  disgusts  me  to  think 

of  it !  Yet  not  a  few  young  girls  have  done  the  same  thing, 
and  do  it  every  day,  and  no  one  speaks  ill  of  them  for  it.  I 
declare  that  when  I  hear,  as  I  have  heard  just  now,  of  the 
remarks  people  make  about  us,  and  especially  about  me,  so 
strong  is  the  emotion  I  feel  that  it  overwhelms  me. 

We  went  yesterday  to  the  Salon  with  E ,  the  brother 

of  Bastien,  and  Beaumetz.  Bastien-Lepage  is  going  to 
paint  a  picture  representing  a  little  peasant-boy  looking  at 
a  rainbow.  It  will  be  sublime— you  may  take  my  word  for 
it.  What  genius,  what  genius  ! 

Monday,  May  22. — I  am  convinced  that  I  shall  never 
love  any  one— except  one  ;  and  he,  it  is  probable,  will  never 
love  me.  Julian  is  right— the  best  way  to  revenge  myself 
would  be  by  conquering  a  brilliant  position  in  the  world— 
by  marrying  some  man  of  note  who  is  rich  as  well  as 
famous.  That  would  be  magnificent  !  Or  to  develop  a 
genius  like  that  of  Bastien-Lepage,  that  would  make  all 
Paris  turn  round  to  look  at  me  when  I  pass  by.  Truly  tl 
is  charming  !  I  talk  as  if  this  might  happen  to  me,  who 


294  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK'IRTSEFF.          [1882. 

have  never  had  anything  but  misfortune  all  my  life.  Oh, 
my  God,  my  God  !  grant  me  my  revenge  !  I  will  be  so 
compassionate  to  those  who  suffer ! 

Thursday,  May  25. — We  went  this  morning  to  see  Caro- 
lus  Duran.  What  a  charming  and  admirable  being  he  is! 
People  are  disposed  to  laugh  at  him  because  he  can  do  a 
little  of  everything.  He  shoots  well,  he  rides,  he  dances,  he 
plays  the  piano,  the  organ,  and  the  guitar,  and  he  sings. 
They  say  he  dances  badly,  but -as  for  the  other  things,  he 
does  them  with  inimitable  grace.  He  fancies  himself  a 
Spaniard,  and  a  Velasquez.  His  appearance  is  very  attractive, 
his  conversation  interesting,  and  there  is  in  Iris  whole  air 
something  so  amiable,  so  frank,  and  so  self-satisfied,  he  has 
so  evident  an  enjoyment  in  the  admiration  of  his  own  proper 
person,  that  one  cannot  bear  him  ill-will  for  it — on  the  con- 
trary ;  and  if  one  smiles  at  him  occasionally,  one  is  none 
the  less  charmed  by  him,  especially  when  one  thinks  of 
those  one  has  to  put  up  with,  who  do  not  possess  a  quarter 
of  his  merits. 

He  takes  himself  altogether  au  serieux;  and  which  of  us, 
in  his  place,  would  not  have  his  head  a  little  turned? 

Sunday,  May  28. — The  Duchess  of  Fitz-James  came  to- 
day to  say  that  she  would  present  us  this  evening  to  her 
daughter-in-law.  There  was  to  be  a  ball.  Mamma  declares 
that  no  one  could  be  more  amiable  than  this  lady.  They 
see  each  other  quite  often,  but  just  how  often  I  cannot  say. 
We  agreed  to  call  for  her  and  go  together. 

Everything  was  perfect;  the  society  was  of  the  best;  the 
young  girls  looked  fresh  and  charming;  the  gowns  were 
beautiful.  The  old  Duchess  has  any  number  of  nephews 
and  nieces  and  grand-children.  The  persons  whose  names 
I  heard  mentioned  are  among  the  best  known  and  the  most 
aristocratic  in  Paris,  and  those  1  met  there  all  distin- 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MAR^E  BASHKIRTSEFF.  29$ 

guished.  For  my  part,  delighted  as  I  was  to  find  myself  in 
this  salon,  I  could  not  get  the  thought  of  a  pastel  'I  had 
finished  this  morning  out  of  my  head,  so  troubled  was  I  by 
the  remembrance  of  its  defects. 

And  then  one  cannot  go  into  society  in  this  way — I  should 
need  a  couple  of  months,  at  least,  to  accustom  myself  to  it. 
But  do  you  think  that  in  my  heart  I  find  it  entertaining?  I 
find  it  stupid,  hollow,  dull!  And  to  think  that  there  are 
people  who  live  only  for  this !  As  for  me,  I  should  like  to 
go  out  occasionally,  just  enougl  to  keep  up  an  interest  in 
what  is  going  on  in  the  world  of  fashion ;  but  for  relaxa- 
tion only,  as  distinguished  men  go;  so  as  not  to  seem  like 
a  Hottentot,  or  an  inhabitant  of  the  moon. 

Monday^  May  29. — Yesterday  we  went  to  the  Bois  with 
Adeline,,  who  congratulated  us  on  being  launched  into  the 
most  aristocratic  society  of  Paris,  and  to-day  we  visit  the 
Queen,  the  two  Duchesses  of  Fitz-James,  the  Countess  of 
Turenne,  Mme.  de  Briey,  and,  finally,  the  American. 

The  question  that  chiefly  occupies  my  attention  now  is 
the  subject  of  my  picture  for  next  year's  Salon.  The  sub- 
ject I  should  prefer,  I  feel  profoundly;  my  heart  and  mind 
are  alike  captivated  by  it,  and  it  is  one  that  I  have  thought 
of  for  nearly  two  years  past.  It  is  when  Joseph  of  Arima- 
thea  has  placed  the  body  of  Jesus  in  the  tomb,  and  the 
stone  has  been  rolled  before  it ;  the  people  have  departed, 
the  night  is  falling,  and  Mary  Magdalen  and  the  other 
Mary  remain  alone,  seated  before  the  mouth  of  the  sepul- 
chre. 

Tuesday,  Jtine  20.— Well,  there  is  nothing  new  to  record; 
a  few  visits  exchanged,  and  my  painting— and  Spam.  Ah, 
Spain !  It  is  a  work  of  Theophile  Gautier  that  has  been  the 
cause  of  this.  Can  it  be  possible  that  I  have  been  in  Toledo, 
Burgos,  Cordova,  Seville,  Grenada?  Grenada!  What! 


296  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

Have  I  indeed  been  in  all  those  cities,  only  to  pronounce 
the  names  of  which  is  to  feel  one's-self  ennobled?  Well,  I 
have  caught  the  infection :  I  must  return  there !  I  must  see 
those  wonders  once  more!  I  must  return  there  alone,  or 
with  congenial  companions.  I  have  suffered  enough  already 
through  the  company  of  my  family  there.  O  Poetry!  O 
Art !  Ah,  how  short  is  life !  And  how  unfortunate  we  are 
that  it  should  be  so  short ! 

Wednesday,  June  21. — I  have  effaced  everything  in  my 
picture,  and  even  disposed  of  the  canvas,  so  as  not  to  have 
it  before  my  eyes!  This  is  killing  me!  O  Art!  I  shall 
never  attain  to  a  mastery  of  it.  But,  as  soon  as  one 
destroys  what  one  is  dissatisfied  with,  one  feels  consoled, 
free,  and  ready  to  begin  again.  The  studio  in  which  I  am 
painting  was  lent  to  Mile.  Loshooths  by  an  American 
named  Chadwick,  who  returned  to-day,  and  we  have  restored 
his  temple  to  him. 

Friday,  June  23. — At  five  o'clock  L ,  Dina,  and  I 

went  to  see  Emile  Bastien,  who  is  to  sit  for  me. 

I  shall  paint  with  the  palette  of  the  true  Bastien,  with  his 
colors,  his  brushes,  in  his  studio,  and  with  his  brother  for 
a  model. 

Well,  it  is  a  dream,  a  piece  of  childishness,  a  silly  fancy! 
The  little  Swedish  girl  took  his  palette  in  her  hands,  and  I 
took  away  some  of  the  paint  he  had  used  as  a  souvenir;  my 
hand  trembled  as  I  did  so,  and  we  both  laughed. 

Saturday,  June  24. — It  is  decided  that  we  are  to  take  the 
the  house  in  the  Rue  Ampere.  It  consists  of  a  basement 
with  a  kitchen  and  billiard-room.  The  ground-floor,  to 
which  one  ascends  by  a  flight  of  ten  steps,  has  a  vestibule; 
then  there  is  a  pretty  glass  door  opening  on  an  antecham- 
ber, from  which  the  staircase  to  the  other  stories  ascends; 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  297 

to  the  right  is  a  room  which  they  have  converted  into  a  par- 
lor by  making  an  entrance  from  it  into  a  little  chamber 
which  opens  on  the  garden ;  a  dining-room,  and  a  court- 
yard  which  carriages  can  enter,  and  into  which  one  descends 
by  steps  from  the  drawing-room,  and  dining-room. 

On  the  first  story  there  are  five  bed-rooms,  with  dressing- 
rooms  adjoining,  and  a  hall,  with  baths.  As  for  the  second 
story  it  belongs  to  me,  and  consists  of  an  antechamber, 
two  bedrooms,  a  library,  a  studio,  and  a  store-room.  The 
studio  and  the  library  open  into  each  other,  forming  a  large 
apartment,  nearly  thirty-six  feet  long,  and  twenty-one  feet 
wide. 

The  light  is  superb,  entering  on  three  sides,  as  well  as 
from  above.  In  short,  for  a  hired  house  there  could  be 
nothing  that  would  suit  me  better.  It  is  No.  30  Rue  Am- 
pere, on  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Bremontier,  and  may  be 
seen  from  the  Avenue  de  Villiers. 

Wednesday,  July  12, — I  am  making  preparations  to  begin 
my  famous  picture,  which  will  be  an  extremely  difficult 
piece  of  work.  I  must  select  a  landscape  like  the  one  I 
have  pictured  to  myself.  And  the  tomb  hewn  out  of  the 
rock — I  should  like  to  paint  it  near  Paris — at  Capri,  for 
instance,  which  is  altogether  Eastern ;  but  it  would  be  nec- 
essary to  copy  a  real  tomb,  such  as  there  must  be  many  of 
in  Algeria,  and  still  more  in  Jerusalem— any  Jewish  sepul- 
chre hewn  out  of  the  rock.  And  the  models?  Oh,  there 
must  be  magnificent  ones  to  be  found  there— and  with  the 
original  costumes.  Julian  says  this  is  a  piece  of  folly.  He 
can  understand,  he  says,  how  a  great  artist— one  who  is 
master  of  his  art— should  go  to  paint  his  picture  on  the 
scene;  he  seeks  the  only  thing  in  which  he  is  lacking,  a 
knowledge  of  the  real  object  he  is  to  copy;  but  I  who  am 
deficient  in  so  many  things!  Well,  it  seems  to  me  it  is  just 
for  that  reason  that  I  should  paint  my  picture  on  the  scene, 


--- 


=       9 

--- 


JOURXAL  OF  XAKIE  BASBKIKTSEFF.  299 

gromnd  is  not  yet  tmshrd,  bat  the  ignr! — Ah, 


What  idiots  are  they  who  say  he  excels  only  m  exeeabna! 
He  k  an  ongmal,  a  powerfal  artist;  he  is  a  poet;  he  B  a 
philosopher;  other  artists  arc  mercwuAmen  naapjiul  to 
hat;  he  is  graad,  as  aatne  is,  as  He  is.  The  other  day 
Tony  Robert-fleny  was  obhged  to  agree  wmh  ae  that,  to 
copy  Natare,  one  anst  be  a  great  artist,  aad  that  aoae  bat 
a  great  artist  caa  uaaptthtad  Katarc  so  as  to  copy  her 
fattmfaHr.  The  fdrel  qvamty  of  the 

his  choice  of  a  sabject;  as  for  the  rin  •!••,  itshoaMhelhe 
pefectioa  of  vhjt  the 

yoar  sabject  Eagaenaid  de  Marigay  or^Agaes  Sord,  if  JOB 
wfll,  bat  let  then-  hai 

. -'•  •    '. ' '-  ~—  -   -  ~    .<.  '  ~  -  - 

Ac  execatioBL     Xo  doubt  it  is  man  easy  to  •••  n  il  Ae 

Bastiea-Lepage  were  to  paiat  MBe.  de  h  Taffiere  or  Mary 
Staart,  dead  and  taoracd  to  d«st  as  they  air,  they  ^ 

There  was  akoanttle  portrait  of  the  elder 
cottld  iad  ao  words  to  empress  a^  ahaii  itlna, 

the  act  of  aukiag  with  his  haad,  hs  eyes  wiak. 

nUaesdbj,  Axgxtf  *j.— lastead  of  wortoag  oa  aay  of 
my  stadies  I  hawe  beea  gniag  oat  Yes,  IfjihaMBMlr  has 
beea  t!a^™g  obserfatioas  in  the  latcrest  of  art. 

:  -  r    i.- :  t  —  :  • :  : 

Jfiaaarr.  Amga&f  a&. — I  hare  read  for  the  jrcnad 
book  by  Owida, a  woaaa  whoisaot  eadowcd  wiha ] 
deal  of  Mains;  it  is  cafflcd  "i 


300  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

Tuesday,  August  29. — This  book  has  disturbed  me; 
Ouida  is  neither  Georges  Sand,  nor  Balzac,  nor  Dumas,  but 
she  has  produced  a  book  which,  for  professional  reasons, 
has  thrown  me  into  a  fever.  Her  ideas  and  opinions  con- 
cerning art,  acquired  among  the  studios  in  Italy,  where  she 
has  lived,  are  extremely  just. 

She  says,  among  other  things,  that  with  the  true  artist — 
not  the  artisan — the  conception  is  immeasurably  superior  to 
the  power  of  execution.  Again,  the  great  sculptor  Marix, 
when  he  had  seen  the  first  attempts  at  modeling  of  the 
young  heroine,  the  future  woman  of  genius,  says:  "Let  her 
come;  she  will  accomplish  all  that  she  desires  to  accom- 
plish." So  Tony  Robert-Fleury  said,  after  he  had  carefully 
examined  my  drawings  at  the  studio:  "Work  hard,  Made- 
moiselle, you  will  accomplish  whatever  you  desire"  were  his 
words. 

But  my  work  has,  no  doubt,  been  one-sided.  Saint- 
Marceaux  said  that  my  drawings  were  the  drawings  of  a 
sculptory  and  I  have  always  loved  form  beyond  everything 
else. 

I  love  color,  also,  but  now,  since  I  have  read  this  book — 
and  even  before — painting  appears  a  miserable  thing  com- 
pared to  sculpture.  And,  then,  I  ought  to  hate  it,  as  I 
hate  every  imitation,  every  imposture. 

Nothing  irritates  me  more  than  to  see  artificial  objects 
imitated  in  painting  on  a  surface  necessarily  smooth  and 
flat,  whether  it  be  a  work  of  art  that  is  concerned,  or  a  com- 
mon wall-paper.  The  sight  of  such  things  enrages  me  as 
the  sight  of  red  enrages  a  bull.  What  can  be  more  odious, 
for  instance,  than  imitations  of  pictures  on  walls,  as  we 
sometimes  see — even  in  the  Louvre — or  the  friezes  on  the 
walls  of  furnished  apartments  imitating  carved  wood  or  lace. 

What  is  it,  then,  that  prevents  me  from  being  a  sculptor? 
Nothing.  I  am  free;  I  am  so  situated  that  all  my  artistic 
needs  are  supplied.  I  have,  an  entire  floor  to  myself— an 


i8S2.]        JOURNAL  Of  MARIE  BASHKIRTS&FF,  301 

antechamber,  a  bed-room,  a  library,  a  splendidly  lighted 
studio,  and  finally,  a  little  garden,  in  which  I  can  work 
when  I  choose.  I  have  had  a  speaking-tube  put  up,  so 
that  I  may  not  be  disturbed  by  any  one  coming  upstairs 
and  that  I  may  not  have  to  go  downstairs  too  often. 

And  what  am  I  painting,  with  all  this?  A  little  girl  who 
has  turned  up  her  black  petticoat  over  her  shoulders,  and 
who  holds  an  open  umbrella  in  her  hand.  I  work  in  the 
open  air,  and  almost  every  day  it  rains.  And  then — what 
does  all  this  signify?  What  is  it  compared  to  a  thought 
expressed  in  marble?  And  what  use  have  I  made  of  the 
sketch  I  did  three  years  ago,  in  October,  1879?  They  gave 
us  the  subject — Ariadne — at  the  studio,  and  I  was  enthusi- 
astic about  it,  as  I  was  about  the  Holy  Women  at  the  Sep- 
ulchre. Julian  and  Tony  thought  the  subject  a  good  one. 
Here  it  is  now  three  years  since  I  first  determined  to  learn 
modeling  for  the  purpose  of  doing  it  in  marble.  I  feel  my- 
self powerless  where  commonplace  subjects  are  concerned. 
And  the  terrible  words, ' '  To  what  end  ? "  keep  my  hands  tied. 

Yes,  the  prejudice  in  favor  of  linear  perspective  is  a  mis- 
taken one,  the  preference  for  colors  a  false  sentiment — col- 
oring is  a  purely  mechanical  art  which  gradually  absorbs  all 
one's  powers,  and  leaves  no  room  for  original  conception. 

The  execution  of  the  painter  who  is  a  thinker  or  a  poet 
is  generally  of  an  inferior  degree  of  excellence.  How  could 
I  have  deceived  myself  as  I  have  done  in  regard  to  this 
truth,  and  clung  to  this  art  with  such  mad  persistency? 

August  30. — I  am  engaged  in  drawing  my  Magdalen,  for 
which  I  have  an  excellent  model.  I  sa-v  three  years  ago 
the  face  I  wanted  for  it,  and  this  woman  has  the  very 
same  features,  and  the  same  terribly  intense  expression  of 
despair. 

No  painting  has  ever  affected  me  like  the  Jeanne  d'Arc 
of  Bastien  Lepage  ;  there  is  something  mysterious,  super- 


302  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

natural,  in  her  expression,  born  of  the  intensity  o^  feeling 
produced  by  her  vision — a  feeling  understood  by  the  artist 
who  has  painted  it  as  at  once  grand,  human,  inspired,  and 
divine;  all  that  it  was,  in  fact,  but  which  no  one  before 
him  had  comprehended. 

Friday,  September  i. — I  have  received  a  letter  from 
mamma  in  which  she  tells  me  that  our  young  neighbors  are 
visiting  at  our  house,  with  some  friends  of  theirs,  and  that 
they  are  getting  up  a  grand  hunt.  She  is  ready  to  return, 
but,  as  I  had  asked  her  to  let  me  know  if — she  has  done 
so.  Well,  this  plunges  me  in  a  sea  of  uncertainty,  doubt, 
and  anxiety.  If  I  go  to  Russia,  there  is  an  end  to  my  pic- 
ture for  the  Exhibition.  If  I  had  even  been  working  all 
the  summer,  I  might  have  the  pretext  of  needing  rest,  but 
this  is  not  the  case.  It  would  be  splendid,  of  course,  but 
nothing  is  less  probable.  And  to  travel  for  four  days  and 
nights  in  a  railway-coach,  and  sacrifice  the  labor  of  a  year 
to  go  and  try  to  make  a  conquest  of  some  one  I  have  never 
seen — there  is  neither  sense  nor  reason  in  it.  If  I  begin  to 
think  of  committing  this  piece  of  folly,  I  shall,  perhaps,  be 
guilty  of  it,  for  I  no  longer  know  what. I  am  doing.  I  shall 
go  to  see  Mother  Jacob  the  fortune-teller  about  it;  the  same 
who  foretold  that  I  should  have  a  serious  illness. 

For  the  sum  of  twenty  francs  I  have  just  purchased 
good  fortune  enough  to  last  me  for  at  least  two  days. 
Mother  Jacob  has  predicted,  from  the  cards,  the  most 
delightful  things  for  me — a  little  mixed  up,  it  is  true.  But 
what  turns  up  with  most  persistence  is  that  I  am  going  to 
achieve  a  brilliant  success,  of  which  all  the  newspapers  will 
talk  ;  that  I  shall  be  a  great  genius,  and  that  a  change  for 
the  better  is  going  to  take  place  ;  that  I  am  to  make  a 
splendid  marriage,  to  have  great  wealth,  and  to  travel  a 
great  deal. 

The  delight  all  this  gives  me  is  insensate,  if  you  will,  but 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MAKIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  303 

all  it  costs  me  is  twenty  francs  ;  I  shall  not  go  to  Russia, 
but  to  Algeria,  for  if  all  these  things  are  going  to  happen 
to  me,  they  will  happen  to  me  there  as  well  as  in  Russia. 

Good-night ;  this  has  done  me  good  ;  I  shall  work  well 
to-morrow. 

Wednesday,  September  6.— I  am  not  an  artist.  I  desired 
to  be  one,  and,  as  I  am  intelligent,  I  learned  certain  details 
of  the  art.— How  then  explain  what  Robert-Fleury  said  to 
me  when  I  began  :  "  You  have  already  what  is  not  to  be 
learned."  He  deceived  himself,  that  is  all. 

I  paint,  as  I  do  anything  else,  with  intelligence  and  skill — 
nothing  more.  Why  then  did  I  draw  heads  with  chalk  on 
the  card-tables  in  our  country-house  when  I  was  only  four 
years  old  ? 

All  children  draw.  But  whence  the  constant  desire  to 
draw — to  copy  engravings,  both  before  we  left  Russia,  and 
afterword,  at  Nice,  when  I  was  only  eleven  ?  They  thought 
then  I  had  an  extraordinary  talent  for  drawing,  and  I 
studied,  under  various  masters,  for  a  couple  of  years. 

Well,  upon  reflection,  I  find  that  I  always  had  the  desire 
to  learn  drawing,  the  impulse  toward  art ;  that  I  made 
efforts,  but  without  any  one  to  direct  them.  And  then 
came  the  journey  to  Italy — Rome.  They  say  in  novels 
that  it  is  possible  to  appreciate  the  beauties  of  art  without 
any  previous  instruction,  but  I  confess  that  I  have  only 
learned  gradually  to  appreciate  the  beauties,  that  is  to  say, 
the  merits  of  paintings.  In  short,  I  have  lost  confidence,  I 
have  lost  courage.  I  am  deficient  in  some  sense.  I  appre- 
ciate beauty  of  coloring,  but — I  cannot  say  precisely  that  I 
have  not  been  able  to  attain  it,  for  I  have  done  two  or  three 
things  which  are  good,  both  in  coloring  and  execution.  If 
I  have  done  some  good  things,  that  means  that  I  can  do 
Others— this  is  what  encourages  me.  And  I  was  going  to 
abandon  my  rtte  of  artist  and  painter— especially  of  painter. 


3°4  JOURNAL  QF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.          [1882. 

In  short  I  paint  not  so  badly,  but  I  think  I  should  do  better 
as  a  sculptor — I  have  certain  conceptions — of  forms,  ges- 
tures, attitudes — that  cannot  be  expressed  in  color. 

Sunday,  September  24. — The  days  follow  one  another  in 
unbroken  monotony ;  from  eight  in  the  morning  till  five, 
painting  ;  an  hour  for  the  bath  before  dinner  ;  then  dinner, 
eaten  in  silence,  for  I  read  the  newspapers  while  I  eat, 
interchanging  an  occasional  word  with  my  aunt.  She  must 
be  bored  to  death,  poor  woman  !  Truly  I  am  not  very 
amiable ;  she  has  never  enjoyed  any  happiness  in  life ; 
formerly  she  sacrificed  herself  for  mamma,  who  was  the 
beauty  of  the  family,  and  now  she  lives  only  for  us,  for  me  ; 
yet  I  cannot  succeed  in  being  amiable  and  pleasant  during 
the  rare  moments  in  which  we  are  together  ;  and  then,  I 
enjoy  a  silence  during  which  my  thoughts  do  not  dwell 
upon  my  infirmities. 

In  RUSSIA,  Saturday,  October  14. — My  aunt  left  me  at 
the  frontier,  and  I  made  the  rest  of  the  journey  with  Paul. 
We  have  to  wait  five  hours  here  for  the  train.  The  place 
is  called  Znamenka.  It  is  cold,  and  the  sky  is  overcast ; 
if  it  were  not  quite  so  cold,  it  would  be  delightful  to  be  in 
the  open  air.  I  have  been  observing  the  peasants,  with 
their  garments  discolored  by  exposure  to  the  inclemency 
of  the  weather,  and  I  see  how  true  to  nature  are  the  paint- 
ings of  Bastien-Lepage.  "  The  tones  are  gray,  the  atmos- 
phere is  flat,  it  has  no  body,"  say  those  who  are  unaccus- 
tomed to  observe  nature  out-of-doors,  who  know  her  only 
in  the  exaggerated  effects  of  the  studio.  But  this  is  pre- 
cisely what  nature  is ;  his  rendering  could  not  be  truer  or 
more  faithful.  Ah,  Bastien  ought  to  be  a  happy  man  ! 
And  I  who  left  Paris  filled  with  chagrin  at  the  thought  of 
my  ruined  Fisherman  ! 

But  I  will  try  to  finish  it  in  March,  in  time  for  the  Salon. 


J8S2.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  305 

It  is  Robert-Fleury  who  has  advised  me  to  retouch  it ; 
I  am  to  leave  the  background  and  the  dress  as  they  are ; 
there  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  retouch  the  head. 

GAVRONZI,  Sunday,  October  15.— We  went  to  bed  at  seven 
o'clock  this  morning,  as  we  came  direct  to  Gavronzi. 
Mamma,  papa,  Dina,  and  Kapitan  were  at  the  station  to 
meet  us.  Paul's  wife  has  a  little  boy  two  weeks  old.  The 
little  girl  is  a  year  old,  and  is  a  charming  child,  with  long, 

black  lashes.     The  young  P s  are  to  arrive  to-morrow. 

Michka  has  gone  to  see  them,  instead  of  waiting  here  for 
me  with  tfie  others. 

Thursday,  October  19. — Here  we  have  them  with  us  at  last. 
They  arrived  in  time  for  breakfast  with  Michka.  Victor, 
the  elder,  is  slender  and  dark,  and  has  a  large  aquiline 
nose  ;  he  is  rather  stout,  has  full  lips,  is  distinguished  in 
appearance,  and  has  agreeable  manners.  The  younger, 
Basili,  is  about  the  same  height,  but  much  stouter ;  he  is 
very  fair,  with  a  florid  complexion,  and  cunning  eyes ;  he 
seems  quarrelsome,  turbulent,  brutal,  and  yes — vulgar.  I 
wore  the  same  gown  as  yesterday — a  white  wool,  short  and 
extremely  simple,  with  kid  shoes  of  antique  red ;  my  hair 
was  twisted  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  the  head.  This  was 
not  one  of  my  brilliant  days,  but  neither,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  I  look  my  worst. 

I  do  not  think  I  shall  make  a  conquest  of  either  of  the 
brothers.  There  is  nothing  in  me  that  could  please  them ; 
I  am  of  medium  stature,  well  proportioned,  and  neither 
dark  nor  fair  ;  my  eyes  are  gray,  and  I  have  neither  a  large 
bust  nor  a  wasp  waist ;  and,  as  for  my  mental  qualities, 
I  think,  without  flattering  myself,  that  I  am  sufficiently  their 
superior  not  to  be  appreciated  by  them.  And  as  a  woman 
of  the  world  I  am  no  more  charming  than  many  other  women 
of  their  own  set. 


306  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

On  reaching  the  railway  at  St.  Petersburg  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt  was  hissed  by  the  populace  because  they  were  disap- 
pointed at  not  seeing  her  tall  and  dark,  with  enormous  eyes, 
and  a  mass  of  tangled  black  hair.  Aside  from  this  piece  of 
stupidity  I  think  the  judgment  formed  here  of  the  actress 
and  the  woman  a  just  one,  and  I  am  altogether  of  the  opin- 
ion of  the  Russian  journals,  which  place  Mile.  Delaporte 
above  her.  For  my  part,  with  the  exception  of  the  music  of 
her  voice  when  she  declaims,  I  find  little  in. her  to  admire. 

PARIS,  Wednesday,  November  15. — I  am  in  Paris  !  We 
left  Russia  on  Thursday  evening.  Uncle  Nicholas  and 
Michka  accompanied  us  as  far  as  the  first  station,  and  Paul 
and  his  wife  as  far  as  Karkoff.  We  remained  twenty-four 
hours  at  Kieff,  where  Uncle  Alexandre's  daughter  is  at  the 
Academy.  She  is  fourteen  years  old,  and  is  a  sweet  girl. 

Thursday,  November  16. — I  have  been  to  see  a  great 
doctor,  a  surgeon  who  visits  the  hospitals.  I  went  incog- 
nito, and  quietly  dressed  so  that  he  might  not  deceive  me. 

Indeed,  he  is  not  a  very  amiable  person.  He  simply  told 
me  that  I  SHOULD  NEVER  RECOVER  MY  HEARING.  It  may 
grow  better,  however,  so  that  my  deafness  will  be  endur- 
able. It  is  so  already,  in  fact.  But  if  I  do  not  follow  strictly 
the  treatment  he  prescribes  for  me,  my  deafness  will  increase. 
He  has  given  me  the  address  of  a  little  doctor  who  will 
attend  me  for  a  couple  of  months,  as  he  himself  has  only 
the  time  to  see  me  twice  a  week,  which  is  all  that  will  be 
necessary. 

For  the  first  time  I  had  the  courage  to  say  :  "  Doctor,  I 
am  growing  deaf."  Up  to  the  present  I  have  used  such 
expressions  as,  "  I  cannot  hear  very  well,"  "  My  ears  seem 
stopped,"  etc.  This  time  I  have  had  the  courage  to  say  the 
hateful  word,  and  the  doctor  has  answered  me  with  the 
brutality  of  his  profession. 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  307 

I  only  hope  that  the  misfortunes  foreshadowed  in  my 
dreams  may  be  nothing  more  than  this.  But  let  me  not 
trouble  myself  beforehand  about  what  blows  Providence 
may  still  have  in  store  for  me.  For  the  time  being  I  am 
only  partially  deaf. 

And  then  he  says  that  my  hearing  will  certainly  improve. 
So  long  as  I  am  surrounded  by  my  family,  to  watch  over  me 
and  come  to  my  assistance  when  I  need  them,  it  can  be 
borne  ;  but  how  would  it  be  if  I  were  alone,  and  in  the 
midst  of  strangers  ! 

And  what  if  it  should  fall  to  my  lot  to  have  a  bad  hus- 
band, or  one  who  would  be  wanting  in  delicacy  of  feeling! 
If  this  were  even  the  price  I  had  to  pay  for  some  great  good 
fortune  which  had  befallen  me  without  my  deserving  it. 
But— Why  do  they  say  that  God  is  good,  that  God  is  just  ? 

I  shall  never  recover  my  hearing,  then.  It  will  be  en- 
durable, but  there  will  always  be  a  veil  between  me  and  the 
rest  of  the  world.  The  wind  among  the  trees,  the  murmur 
of  the  brook,  the  rain  striking  against  the  window-panes, 
whispered  words — I  shall  hear  none  of  these.  With  the 

K 's  I  have  not  found  myself  once  embarrassed,  nor  do 

I  find  myself  embarrassed  at  table.  So  long  as  the  con- 
versation is  animated  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  But 
at  the  theater  I  miss  a  great  deal  of  what  is  said,  as  I  do 
also  with  my  models, — the  silence  is  so  profound  that  they 
are  afraid  to  raise  their  voices.  Well,  I  had  in  a  certain 
measure  foreseen  this  for  a  year  past ;  I  ought  to  be  ac- 
customed to  the  thought  by  this  time.  I  am  accustomed 
to  it,  but  it  is  none  the  less  horrible. 

I  have  been  stricken  in  that  which  was  most  dear  to  me, 
most  necessary  to  my  happiness. 
Provided  only  that  it  stop  here  ! 

Friday,  November  17. — So  then  I  shall  be  henceforth  less 
than  the  least  of  human  beings — incomplete,  infirm. 


308  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

I  shall  stand  in  constant  need  of  the  complaisance  and 
the  co-operation  of  my  family,  and  of  the  consideration 
of  strangers.  Independence,  freedom,  all  that  is  at  an 
end. 

I,  who  have  been  so  haughty,  shall  have  to  blush  and 
hesitate  at  every  moment. 

I  write  all  this  so  as  to  accustom  myself  to  the  thought — 
not  because  I  believe  it  yet ;  it  is  too  horrible.  I  have  not 
yet  realized  it ;  it  is  too  cruel,  too  hard  to  be  believed. 

The  sight  of  my  fresh  and  rosy  countenance  in  the  look- 
ing-glass fills  me  with  pity. 

Yes,  every  one  knows  it,  or  soon  will  know  it, — those 
who  have  already  taken  such  delight  in  disparaging  me — 
"  She  is  deaf."  O  my  God  !  why  this  unexpected,  this 
terrible  blow? 

Tuesday,  November  21. — I  have  been  painting  at  the 
studio  since  yesterday.  I  have  returned  to  the  simplest 
studies,  taking  note  neither  of  the  beauty  of  the  model,  nor 
of  anything  else.  "  With  six  months  of  this  regime"  Julian 
says,  "you  will  accomplish  whatever  you  wish."  He  is 
convinced  that  I  have  made  no  progress  during  the  last 
three  years,  and  I  shall  end  by  believing  him.  In  fact, 
since  I  began  painting  I  have  made  but  little  progress.  Is 
this  because  I  have  not  worked  as  hard  as  before  ?  No,  I 
have,  on  the  contrary,  worked  harder  than  before,  but  I 
have  undertaken  subjects  that  are  too  difficult  for  me. 

But  Julian  will  have  it  that  it  is  because  I  do  not  work 
hard  enough,  that  I  have  made  no  progress. 

I  am  tired  of  them  all ;  I  am  tired  of  myself  !  I  shall 
never  recover  my  hearing.  Can  you  understand  how  hor- 
rible, how  unjust,  how  maddening  this  is  ? 

I  can  bear  this  thought  with  calmness,  for  I  was  prepared 
for  it ;  but  no — that  is  not  the  reason  ;  it  is  because  I  can- 
not believe  it  will  be  forever. 


I882.J         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEI-F.  309 

Do  you  understand  what  that  means  ? — all  my  life  long — 
until  I  die. 

But  I  repeat,  I  cannot  yet  believe  it  to  be  true.  It  is  im- 
possible but  that  something  can  be  done,  impossible  that  it 
is  to  be  forever,  that  I  am  to  die  with  this  veil  between  the 
universe  and  me,  that  I  shall  never,  never,  never  hear  again  ! 

Is  it  not  true  that  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  this 
sentence  is  a  final,  an  irrevocable  one  ?  That  there  is  not 
the  shadow  of  a  hope  ? 

This  thought  makes  me  so  nervous  when  I  am  working, 
that  I  am  in  constant  dread  lest  the  model,  or  some  one 
else  in  the  studio,  may  have  spoken  without  my  having 
heard  ;  or  that  they  are  ridiculing  my  infirmity  ;  or  that 
they  are  raising  their  voices  so  as  to  make  me  hear. 

But  when  the  model  comes  to  me  here,  can  I  not  say 
plainly  that — what?  That  I  cannot  hear  well?  Let  me 
try  it,  then.  To  make  confession  of  my  infirmity,  like  that ! 
And  so  humiliating,  so  stupid,  so  pitiable  an  infirmity— an 
infirmity,  in  short  ! 

I  have  not  the  courage  to  confess  it,  and  I  still  cherish 
the  hope  that  it  may  not  be  perceived. 

Thursday,  November  23.— All  I  have  done  this  week 
is  so  bad  that  I  myself  cannot  understand  it.  Julian  called 
me  to  him,  and  spoke  such  useless,  such  cruel  words  to 
me,— I  cannot  understand  it  !  Last  year  he  said  almost 
the  same  thing  to  me  :  and  now,  looking  over  last  year's 
studies,  he  says  :  "  That  was  good  work  ;  you  would  not 
be  able  to  do  so  well  now."  To  believe  him,  then,  I  have 
made  no  progress  during  the  last  three  years  ;  that  is  to 
say,  he  had  begun  his  lamentations  and  his  reproaches  and 
his  sarcastic  speeches  three  years  ago,  ever  since  I  began 
to  paint,  in  fact. 

Perhaps  he  thinks  he  will  force  me  to  work,  in  this  way  ; 
on  the  contrary,  it  paralyzes  me  ;  I  was  unable  to  do  any- 


3 10  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

thing  for  more  than  three  hours — my  hands  trembled,  my 
arms  burned. 

Last  summer  I  painted  a  portrait  of  Irma,  laughing,  and 
every  one  thought  it  good.  This  summer,  on  my  return 
from  Spain,  I  made  a  pastel,  after  my  illness,  which  every- 
one thought  extremely  good ;  and  a  picture  which  they 
thought  good.  What  have  I  done  since  ?  I  have  spoiled 
my  Fisherman  ;  and  then,  I  have  been  in  Russia — six 
weeks  of  vacation  ;  on  my  return  I  chanced  upon  a  model 
I  did  not  like,  I  chose  a  bad  position  ;  notwithstanding  all 
this  I  forced  myself  to  work  against  my  will  ;  I  produced 
a  wretched  thing,  which  I  destroyed.  Then,  I  attempt  to 
paint  an  arm  ;  Julian  comes  to  see  it  just  as  I  have  sketched 
it,  and  finds  it  very  bad,  and  tells  me  so  privately.  That  I 
am  not  a  Breslau  I  know  very  well ;  that  I  need  to  study  I 
know  too  ;  but  between  that  and  telling  me  that  my  case  is 
hopeless,  that  I  can  no  longer  paint — upon  my  word,  one 
would  imagine  that  I  knew  nothing  at  all  about^art  ! 

If  I  do  not  make  as  rapid   progress  in  painting  as  I  did 
in  drawing,  that  is  no  reason  why  he  should  say  such  horri 
ble  things  to  me. 

Monday,  November  27. — Now  that  I  have  returned  to  the 
studio  and  he  can  no  longer  say  I  do  not  work,  Julian 
tells  me  that  I  am  pretending.  This  continual  fault-find- 
ing becomes  monotonous.  The  day  before  yesterday  he 
said  it  was  only  during  the  last  two  years  that  I  had  made 
no  progress.  During  "those  two  years  I  was  ill  for  five 
months,  and  convalescing  for  six  months  more.  In  the  re- 
maining time  I  have  painted  my  picture  for  the  Salon — a 
woman,  life-size,  painted  from  life  in  Russia,  the  Old  Man  of 
Nice,  Therese,  Irma,  and  Dina.  So  much  for  large  paint- 
ings ;  I  do  not  count  several  studies.  That  they  are  not 
good  I  know  very  well — but  it  is  not  as  if  my  shoemaker 
had  painted  them  for  his  own  amusement. 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEII-'.  311 

I  suppose  he  thinks  his  words  will  spur  me  on ;  that  he 
is  witty,  perhaps.  How  exasperating  this  is  !  Of  course  I 
am  not  situated  like  Breslau,  who  moves  in  an  artistic 
circle,  where  every  word  spoken,  every  step  taken,  bears 
some  relation  to  art.  But  all  that  I  can  do,  in  the  environ- 
ment in  which  I  am  placed,  I  do. 

No  doubt  I  lose  a  great  deal  of  time  from  study ;  in  the 
evenings,  for  instance,  which  Breslau  employs  in  drawing, 
and  in  sketching  compositions,  my  attention  is  distracted 
and  dissipated  by  the  persons  who  surround  me. 

Environment — half  one's  progress  depends  upon  that, 
during  the  time  one  is  a  student.  Letting  my  thoughts 
dwell  continually  on  this  idea  gives  to  my  countenance  an 
expression  of  concentrated  rage,  or  rather  of  alienation 
from  those  who  surround  me.  If  I  were  not  afraid  of 
drawing  down  upon  my  head  other  misfortunes,  I  would 
say  that  God  is  unjust.  Yet  why  should  I  say  so  ?  I  have 
a  horror  of  myself ;  I  have  grown  stout ;  my  shoulders, 
that  were  large  enough  already,  are  broader,  my  arms  are 
rounder,  and  my  chest  fuller  than  before. 

Tuesday,  December  5.— I  have  just  read  "  Honorine  "  at 
a  sitting.  What  would  I  not  give  to  be  mistress  of  this 
fascinating  style,  that  I  might  be  able  to  interest  my  read- 
ers in  my  dull  existence. 

It  would  be  curious  if  this  record  of  my  failures  and  of 
my  obscure  life  should  be  the  means  of  procuring  for  me 
the  fame  I  long  for,  and  shall  always  long  for.  But  I 
should  not  be  conscious  of  it  then  ;  and,  besides,  in  onli-r 
that  any  one  should  wade  through  these  interminable 
pages,  would  it  not  be  necessary  that  I  should  first  win  a 
name  ? 

Two  or  three  days  ago  we  went  to  the  Hotel  Drouot, 
where  there  was  an  exhibition  of  precious  stones.  Mamma, 
my  aunt,  and  Dina  were  lost  in  ail  miration  of  some  of  the 


312  jo URNAL  OF  MARIE  BA SHKIR TSEFF.         [i 882. 

ornaments  ;  I,  however,  made  little  of  anything,  with  the 
exception  of  some  enormous  diamonds  which,  for  a  single 
instant,  I  desired  to  possess ;  it  would  be  delightful,  I 
thought,  to  possess  a  pair  of  them ;  but  such  a  thing  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  I  contented  myself  with  thinking, 
therefore,  that  if  I  should  one  day  marry  a  millionnaire,  I 
might  own  a  pair  of  earrings  with  diamonds  of  this  size,  or 
a  brooch,  for  stones  of  such  a  size  would  be  almost  too 
heavy  for  earrings.  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  fully 
appreciated  the  beauty  of  precious  stones.  Well,  last  night 
those  two  stones  were  brought  to  me  ;  my  mother  and  my 
aunt  had  bought  them  for  me,  yet  I  had  only  said,  without 
the  slightest  expectation  of  ever  having  them,  "  Those 
are  the  only  diamonds  I  have  ever  cared  to  possess." 
They  are  worth  twenty-five  thousand  francs ;  they  are 
yellow,  otherwise  they  would  have  cost  three  times  that 
sum. 

I  amused  myself  with  them  during  the  whole  evening ;  I 
kept  them  in  my  pocket  while  I  was  modeling.  Dusautoy 
played,  and  Bojidar  and  the  others  chatted.  I  did  not 
part  with  the  stones  all  the  evening,  and  I  placed  them 
beside  my  bed  when  I  went  to  sleep. 

Ah,  if  certain  other  things  that  seem  as  impossible  might 
only  be  so  easily  obtained — even  if  they  should  prove  to  be 
yellow,  and  should  cost  only  four  thousand  instead  of 
twenty-five  thousand  francs  ! 

Thursday,  December  7. — I  spent  a  few  moments  chatting 
with  Julian,  but  we  never  have  the  long  and  friendly  con- 
versations together  now  that  we  used  to  have.  We  have 
no  longer  anything  to  talk  about,  everything  has  been  said  ; 
we  are  waiting  until  I  shall  accomplish  something.  I  re- 
proached him  with  his  injustice  toward  me,  however,  or 
rather  with  the  means  he  took  to  spur  me  on. 

My  pastel  is  to  be  sent  to  a  club,  and  then  to  the  Salon. 


IS82.]          JOCA'A'.IL  OF  MAK1K  BASJIKIKTSEW.  313 


"It  could  not  be  better,"  said  Julian,  and  I  felt  like  throw- 
ing my  arms  around  his  neck. 

Well,  then,  I  must  paint  a  picture  that  artists  will  stop  to 
look  at.  But  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  that  just  yet.  Ah, 
if  I  only  thought  that  by  working,  no  matter  how  hard,  1 
might  at  last  succeed  !  That  would  give  me  courage,  but 
at  present  I  feel  as  if  it  were  impossible. 

Thursday,  December  i4._We  went  this  morning  to  see 
the  paintings  which  the  real  Bastien  has  brought  back  with 
him  from  the  country.  We  found  him  engaged  in  making 
some  alterations  in  his  pictures.  Our  meeting  was  like  that 
of  good  friends  ;  he  is  so  amiable,  so  unpretending  ! 

Perhaps  he  is  not  quite  that  ;  but  then  he  has  so  much 
genius  !  But  yes,  he  is  charming. 

As  for  the  poor  architect,  he  is  completely  cast  in  the  shade 
by  his  brother's  splendor.  Jules  brought  with  him  several 
studies  of  "  The  Soir  au  Village  ":  a  peasant  returning  from 
his  labor  in  the  fields,  has  stopped  to  talk  with  a  woman 
who  is  going  toward  a  house  in  the  distance,  the  windows 
of  which  are  lighted  up  by  the  rays  of  the  rising  moon. 
The  effect  of  the  twilight  is  marvelously  rendered  ; 
one  can  feel  the  calm  of  the  hour  pervading  everything. 
It  is  full  of  poetry  and  charm,  and  the  coloring  is 
wonderful. 

There  is  also  a  scene  representing  a  Forge,  at  which  an 
old  man  is  at  work.  It  is  very  small,  and  is  as  fine  as  those 
wonderful  little  dark  pictures  that  are  to  be  seen  at  the 
Louvre.  Besides  these  there  are  landscapes  and  marine 
views  —  Venice  and  London  —  and  two  large  pictures,  an 
English  flower-girl,  and  a  little  peasant-girl  in  a  field. 

At  the  first  glance  one  is  dazzled  by  the  versatility  and 
the  force  of  this  genius  that  disdains  to  confine  itself  to  a  sin- 
gle style,  and  that  treats  every  style  in  a  masterly  manner. 

This  English  boy  is  far  superior  to  the  two  pictures  I 


3H  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

have  just  mentioned.     As  for  the  boy  of  last  year,  entitled 
"  Pas-meche,"  it  is  simply  a  masterpiece. 

Sunday,  December  17. — The  real,  the  only,  the  great  Bas- 
tien-Lepage  came  to  see  me  to-day.  I  received  him  with 
embarrassment,  for  I  was  vexed  and  humiliated  at  having 
nothing  worth  while  to  show  him. 

He  stayed  looking  at  my  pictures  for  more  than  two  hours, 
although  I  did  m\r  best  to  prevent  his  seeing  them.  This 
great  artist  is  extremely  amiable  ;  he  tried  to  put  me  at  my 
ease,  and  we  spoke  of  Julian,  who  is  the  cause  of  my  present 
discouragement.  Bastien  does  not  treat  me  like  a  society 
girl.  His  opinion  is  the  same  as  that  of  Tony  Robert- 
Fleury  and  of  Julian,  only  he  does  not  make  use  of  the 
horrible  jests  of  the  latter,  who  says  all  is  over  ;  that  1  shall 
never  be  able  to  accomplish  anything  ;  that  there  is  no 
hope  for  me.  This  is  what  afflicts  me. 

Bastien  is  adorable  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  adore  his  talent  ; 
and  I  think  my  embarrassment  in  his  presence  was  the 
most  delicate  and  flattering  compliment  I  could  have  paid 
him.  He  made  a  sketch  in  the  album  of  Miss  Richards,  in 
which  she  had  asked  me  to  draw  something,  and,  as  the 
paint  passed  through,  and  stained  the  following  page,  he 
wished  to  lay  a  piece  of  paper  between. 

"  Leave  it  so,"  I  said  ;  "  she  will  then  have  two  sketches, 
instead  of  one."  I  don't  know  why  I  should  do  a  favor  to 
Miss  Richards,  but  at  times  it  amuses  me  to  give  pleasure 
to  a  person  who  does  not  expect  it  from  me,  or  one  who  is  a 
stranger  to  me. 

Wednesday,  December  20. — I  have  made  no  choice  of  a 
subject  yet  for  the  Salon,  and  nothing  suggests  itself. — This 
is  torture  ! 

Saturday,  December  23. — The  great,  the  real,  the  incompar- 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAS1IKIRTSE1-1-.  315 

able  Bastien-Lepage  and  his  brother  dined  with  us  this 
evening.  We  had  invited  no  other  guests,  which  made  me 
feel  a  little  embarrassed.  As  it  was  the  first  time  they  had 
dined  with  us,  it  might  seem  as  if  we  were  treating  them 
with  too  much  familiarity  ;  and  then  I  was  afraid,  besides, 
of  not  being  able  to  entertain  them. 

As  to  the  brother,  he  is  received  here  with  almost  the 
same  familiarity  as  Bojidar,  but  our  concern  was  for  the 
real,  the  great,  the  only,  etc.  And  the  good  little  man, 
whose  genius  is  worth  more  than  his  weight  in  gold,  is 
flattered  and  pleased,  I  think,  at  being  regarded  in  this 
way  ;  no  one  has  yet  called  him  a  "genius."  I  do  not  call 
him  so,  either.  I  only  treat  him  as  such,  and,  by  means  of 
artifices,  make  him  swallow  the  most  extravagant  compli- 
ments. Bojidar  came  for  a  few  moments  in  the  evening  ; 
was  in  an  amiable  humor,  and  agreed  with  everything  I  said. 
We  treat  him  like  one  of  the  family,  and  he  is  pleased  to 
meet  here  celebrities  such  as  Bastien. 

But  in  order  that  Bastien  may  not  think  I  carry  my 
admiration  for  him  to  excess,  I  couple  Saint-Marceaux 
with  him  whenever  I  speak  of  them.  "  You  two,"  I  say- 
He  stayed  until  midnight.  He  thought  a  bottle  I  had  painted 
very  good.  "  That  is  the  way  you  must  work,"  he  added, 
"  with  patience  and  concentration  ;  use  your  best  efforts  to 
copy  nature  faithfully." 

Tuesday,  December  26. — Well,  it  seems  that  I  am  really 
ill ;  the  doctor  who  is  attending  me  is  unacquainted  with 
me  ;  he  has  no  interest  in  deceiving  me,  and  he  says  the 
right  lung  is  affected  ;  that  it  will  never  be  completely 
cured,  but  that,  if  I  take  care  of  my  health,  it  will  grow  no 
worse,  and  I  may  live  as  long  as  any  one  else.  Yes,  but  it 
is  necessary  to  arresjt  the  progress  of  the  disease  by  heroic 
measures— by  burning,  and  by  a  blister— everything  that  is 
delightful,  in  short !  A  blister  !  that  means  a  yellow  stain 


316  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1882. 

for  a  year  or  more.  I  might,  indeed,  conceal  the  mark  by 
wearing,  in  the  evening,  a  bunch  of  flowers  over  the  right 
shoulder. 

I  shall  wait  for  a  week  longer  ;  if  1  am  no  better  by  that 
time,  I  shall  consent  to  this  atrocity. 

Thursday,  December  28. — So  this,  then,  is  what  the 
matter  is — I  have  consumption  ;  he  told  me  so  to-day. 
"  Take  care  of  yourself,"  he  said  ;  "  try  to  get  well,  or  you 
will  regret  it." 

He  is  a  young  man,  and  has  an  intelligent  look,  this 
doctor  ;  to  my  objections  regarding  the  blister,  and  other 
wretched  things  of  the  kind,  he  answered  that  I  would 
regret  it  if  I  did  not  follow  his  advice,  and  that  he  has 
never  in  his  life  seen  so  extraordinary  a  patient  as  I  am  ; 
and  also  that  from  my  appearance  no  one  would  suppose 
that  my  lungs  were  affected.  And,  indeed,  although  both 
my  lungs  are  affected,  the  left  much  less  seriously  than  the 
right  however,  I  look  the  picture  of  health. 

The  first  time  I  felt  anything  in  the  left  lung  was  on 
leaving  the  sacred  catacombs  of  Kieff,  where  we  had  gone 
to  pray  to  God  and  to  the  saints  for  my  recovery,  reinforc- 
ing our  prayers  by  paying  to  have  a  great  many  masses 
said.  A  week  ago  scarcely  anything  was  noticeable  in  the 
left  lung.  He  asked  me  if  any  of  my  family  had  had  con- 
sumption. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  my  grandfather,  and  two  of  his  sisters, 
the  Countess  of  Toulouse-Lautrec,  and  the  Baroness  Stral- 
borne,  a  great-great-grandfather,  and  two  grand-aunts." 
At  any  rate,  I  have  consumption. 

My  knees  trembled  slightly  as  I  went  downstairs,  after 
my  interview  with  this  good  man,  who  is  interested  in  so 
eccentric  a  patient.  The  disease  might  be  checked  if  I 
would  follow  his  orders  ;  that  is  to  say,  apply  blisters  to 
the  chest,  and  go  to  the  South — disfigure  myself  for  a  year 


1882.]         JO  URN  A  L  OF  MARIE  BA  SIIKIR  TSK1-I-.  3 1 7 

and  go  into  banishment.     And  what  is  a  year  compared  to 
one's  whole  life  ?     And  my  life  is  so  beautiful  ! 

I  am  quite  calm,  but  I  have  a  sense  of  strangeness  at 
being  the  only  one  in  the  secret  of  my  misfortune.  And 
how  about  the  fortune-teller  who  predicted  for  me  so  much 
happiness  ?  Mother  Jacob,  however,  told  me  that  I  should 
have  a  serious  illness,  and  here  it  is.  In  order  that  her 
predictions  may  be  altogether  fulfilled  there  are  still  to 
come  :  A  great  success ;  wealth,  marriage,  and  the  love  of 
a  married  man.  This  news  about  the  left  lung  troubles  me, 
though.  Potain  would  never  acknowledge  that  the  lungs 
were  affected  ;  he  made  use  of  the  phrases  usual  in  such 
cases — the  bronchial  tuoes,  bronchitis,  etc.  It  is  belief  to 
know  exactly  what  the  matter  is ;  that  will  decide  me  to  do 
all  I(can — except  to  go  away  this  year. 

Next  winter  I  shall  have  my  painting  of  Ihe  Holy  Women 
as  an  excuse  for  this  journey.  To  go  this  winter  would  be 
to  begin  over  again  the  follies  of  last  year.  I  will  do  every- 
thing that  it  is  possible  for  me  to  do,  then,  except  go 
South — and  trust  in  the  grace  of  God  ! 

What  has  made  this  doctor  speak  so  seriously  is,  that 
since  he  has  been  attending  me  my  lungs  have  become 
much  worse.  He  was  treating  me  for  my  deafness,  and  I 
mentioned  my  chest  to  him  by  chance,  and  laughingly ;  he 
examined  my  lungs  and  prescribed  some  remedies  for  then* 
a  month  ago,  and  laid  particular  stress  on  blislering ;  on 
this  latler,  however,  I  could  not  resolve,  hoping  that  the 
trouble  would  not  progress  so  rapidly  as  it  has  done. 

I  have  consumption,  then,  but  my  lungs  have  been 
affected  only  for  the  past  two  or  three  years.  And  after  all 
the  trouble  is  not  so  serious  as  to  cause  my  death,  ihough 
il  is  very  distressing  ! 

But  how,  then,  explain  my  blooming  appearance,  and  the 
fact  that  the  waists  of  my  dresses,  made  before  my  illness, 
and  when  no  one  had  any  idea  that  there  was  anything  the 


3 1 8  JO URNAL  OF  MARIE  BA SHKIR TSEFF.          [i 882. 

matter  with  me,  are  all  too  small  for  me  ?  I  suppose  I  shall 
grow  thin  all  of  a  sudden. 

Well,  if  I  am  granted  ten  years  of  life,  and  during  those 
ten  years  love  and  fame,  I  shall  be  content  to  die  at  thirty. 
If  there  were  any  one  with  whom  it  would  be  possible  to 
make  this  agreement,  I  would  do  so — to  die — having  lived 
up  to  that  time — at  thirty. 

But  I  should  like  to  get  well ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the  prog- 
ress of  the  malady  might  be  arrested,  for  the  disease  is 
never  cured,  though  one  may  live  with  it  a  long  time — as 
long  as  any  one  else,  in  fact.  I  will  apply  as  many  blisteis 
as  they  like  to  my  chest,  but  I  must  go  on  with  my  painting. 

Ah,  I  was  right  in  predicting  that  it  was  my  fate  to  die 
early.  After  being  overwhelmed  with  misfortunes  death 
now  comes  to  end  all.  I  knew  well  that  I  must  die  early; 
my  life,  as  it  was,  could  not  last.  This  desire  to  possess  all 
things,  these  colossal  aspirations,  could  not  continue,  I  knew 
it  well ;  years  ago  at  Nice  I  foresaw  dimly  all  that  would  be 
necessary  to  make  life  possible  for  me.  But  others  possess 
even  more  than  I  desired,  and  they  do  not  die. 

I  shall  speak  to  no  one  of  my  condition,  with,  the  excep- 
tion of  Julian,  who  knows  it  already.  He  dined  with  us 
this  evening,  and,  finding  myself  alone  with  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, I  nodded  to  him  significantly,  pointing  to  my  throat 
and  chest  as  I  did  so.  He  cannot  believe  it,  I  appear  so 
strong.  He  tried  to  reassure  me  by  telling  me  of  friends  of 
his  in  regard  to  whom  the  doctors  had  said  the  same  thing, 
and  had  proved  to  be  mistaken. 

Then  he  asked  me  what  my  ideas  respecting  Heaven 
were.  I  told  him  Heaven  had  used  me  very  ill.  "As  to 
my  ideas  respecting  it,"  I  added,  "I  have  thought  but  little 
about  it."  He  says  he  thinks,  however,  that  I  believe 
there  is  something  after  this  life.  "Yes,"  I  said,  "it  is 
possible."  I  read  him  Musset's  "Espoir  en  Dieu,"  and  he 
responded  by  reciting  Franck's  invocation,  "I  must  live!" 


1882.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  319 

I,  too,  wish  to  live.  Well,  this  position  of  one  con- 
demned to  death  almost  amuses  me.  It  is  an  opportunity 
to  pose ;  it  is  a  new  sensation ;  I  hold  a  secret  within  me. 
I  have  been  touched  by  the  hand  of  Death ;  there  is  a  cer- 
tain fascination  in  all  this— it  is  a  novelty,  in  the  first 
place. 

And  then  to  be  able  to  talk  in  earnest  of  my  death — that 
amuses  me,  that  is  interesting.  Only  it  is  a  pity  that  I  can- 
not conveniently  have  any  other  audience  than  my  con- 
fessor Julian. 

Saturday,  December  30. — The  disease  progresses.  There, 
now  I  begin  to  exaggerate ;  yet,  no,  it  is  true  that  it  pro- 
gresses, and  that  I  shall  never  be  well  again,  and  that  the 
good  God,  who  is  neither  just  nor  good,  will  probably 
inflict  still  further  punishment  upon  me  for  daring  to  say 
so!  He  inspires  me  with  such  dread  that  I  shall  submit 
myself  to  His  will — a  submission  which  He  will  probably 
not  take  into  account,  since  it  is  the  result  of  fear. 

Provided  only — the  worst  of  it  is  that  I  cough  a  great 
deal,  and  that  ominous  sounds  are  to  be  heard  in  my  chest. 
Well,  let  us  leave  everything  till  the  fourteenth.  If  I  can 
only  keep  in  any  kind  of  health  until  then!  If  I  only 
remain  free  from  fever ;  if  I  am  not  obliged  to  take  to  bed. 
That  is  not  likely,  however.  Yet  perhaps  the  disease  is 
already  beyond  control,  it  is  one  that  progresses  so  rapidly. 
And  both  lungs !  Ah,  woe  is  me ! 

Sunday,  December  31. — As  it  was  too  dark  to  paint,  we 
went  to  church;  after  that  we  went  to  the  Exhibition,  in  the 
Rue  de  Seze,  of  the  paintings  of  Bastien,  Saint- Marceaux, 
and  Cazin.  This  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  seen  any  of 
Cazin's  paintings,  and  they  have  completely  captivated  me. 
They  are  poetry  itself;  butBastien's  "Soirau  Village"  is  in 
DO  way  inferior  to  any  of  the  pictures  of  this  poet-painter, 


320  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASI1KIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

Cazin,  and  observe  that  Bastien  has  often  been  unjustly 
said  to  excel  in  execution  only. 

I  spent  a  delightful  hour  there.  How  many  things  there 
were  to  be  enjoyed!  Never  was  there  a  sculptor  like  Saint- 
Marceaux.  The  words,  so  often  used  as  to  become  hack- 
neyed, "It  is  lifelike!"  are  in  his  case  absolute  truth. 
And,  in  addition  to  this  important  quality,  which  alone 
would  be  sufficient  to  make  the  success  of  an  artist,  there  is 
in  his  work  a  depth  of  thought,  an  intensity  of  feeling,  an 
indescribable  something  which  shows  Saint  Marceaux  to  be 
an  artist,  not  alone  of  great  talent,  but  almost  of  genius. 

It  is  only  because  he  is  young,  and  is  still  living,  that  I 
seem  to  exaggerate  his  merits. 

For  the  moment  I  am  disposed  to  place  him  above 
Bastien. 

I  have  at  present  a  fixed  idea — it  is  to  possess  a  picture 
by  the  one,  and  a  statue  by  the  other. 


1883. 

Monday,  January  i. — Gambetta,  who  had  been  lying  ill 
and  wounded  for  many  days  past,  has  just  died.  Died, 
notwithstanding  all  his  seven  physicians  could  do  to  save 
him,  notwithstanding  all  the  interests  of  which  he  was  the 
center,  all  the  prayers  offered  up  for  his  recovery !  Why 
should  I  torment  myself?  Why  should  I  hope  to  recover  ; 
Why  should  I  grieve  ? — The  idea  of  dying  terrifies  me, 
now,  as  if  I  had  already  come  face  to  face  with  death. 

Yes,  I  think  it  must  come — soon,  now.  Ah,  how  I  feel 
my  littleness !  And  yet  why  ?  There  must  be  something 
beyond  the  grave  ;  this  transitory  existence  cannot  be  all ; 
.it  does  not  satisfy  either  our  reason  or  our  aspirations ; 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MAKlE  kASHXlRTSEll.  32! 

there  must  be  something  beyond  ;  if  there  were  not,  this  life 
would  have  no  meaning,  and  God  would  be  an  absurdity. 

The  life  to  come — there  are  moments  when  one  catches 
mysterious  glimpses  of  it  that  terrify  one. 

Tuesday,  January  16- — Emile  Bastien  took  us  to  Gam- 
betta's  house  at  Ville  d'Avray,  where  his  brother  is  working. 

Bastien-Lepage  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  paint- 
ing. Everything  in  the  room  remains  as  it  was — the  sheets, 
the  eiderdown  coverlet,  that  still  retains  the  impress  of  the 
body,  the  flowers  on  the  bed.  The  picture  is  truth  itself. 
The  head,  thrown  back,  and  taken  in  a  three-quarter  view, 
wears  the  look  of  nothingness  that  succeeds  to  intense  suf- 
fering— a  serenity  that  is  lifelike,  but  that  has  in  it  also 
something  of  eternal  peace.  You  fancy  you  see  before  you 
the  man  himself.  The  body,  stretched  motionless  on  the 
bed,  and  from  which  life  has  just  departed,  is  strikingly 
impressive. 

What  a  happy  man  Bastien-Lepage  must  be  !  I  feel 
when  in  his  presence  a  certain  awkwardness.  Although  he 
has  the  physique  of  a  young  man  of  twenty-five,  he  has 
that  air  of  unaffected  and  amiable  serenity  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  great  men— of  Victor  Hugo,  for  instance.  I 
shall  end  by  thinking  him  handsome  ;  at  all  events  he 
possesses  the  infinite  charm  conferred  by  the  consciousness 
of  power — in  which,  however,  there  is  nothing  of  either 
arrogance  or  conceit. 

On  the  wall  is  to  be  seen  the  mark  left  by  the  bullet 
which  caused  Gambetta's  death.  He  called  our  attention 
to  it,  and  the  silence  of  this  chamber,  the  faded  flowers,  the 
sunlight  entering  through  the  window,— all  this  brought 
the  tears  to  my  eyes.  He  was  absorbed  in  his  painting, 
however,  and  his  back  was  turned  to  me  ;  so,  in  order  not 
to  lose  the  benefit  of  this  display  of  sensibility,  I  extended 
my  h?\nd  to  him  abruptly,  and  hastily  left  the  room,  the 


322  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BA  SlIKlRTSEFF.          [1883. 

tears  running  down  my  face.  I  hope  that  he  observed 
them.  It  is  hateful,  yes,  hateful,  to  have  to  confess  that 
one  is  always  thinking  of  the  effect. 

Monday,  January  22. — For  the  past  two  months  I  have 
been  going  twice  a  week  to  see  the  doctor  recommended  to 
me  by  M.  Duplay,  who  had  not  the  time  to  attend  me  him- 
self. The  treatment  that  was  to  have  produced  such  good 
results  has  not  done  so.  I  am  no  better,  but  they  hope  the 
disease  will  not  progress.  "  And  if  it  should  not  progress," 
he  says,  "you  may  consider  yourself  very  fortunate."  This 
is  hard. 

Thursday,  February  22. — I  have  been  playing  airs  from 
Chopin  on  the  piano,  and  from  Rossini  on  the  harp,  all 
alone  in  my  studio.  The  moon  shone  brightly  ;  through 
the  large  window  of  the  studio  I  could  see  the  beauti- 
ful cloudless  blue  sky.  I  thought  of  my  picture  of  the 
Holy  Women,  and  was  so  carried  away  by  the  impression 
it  made  upon  me,  as  it  presented  itself  to  my  imagination, 
that  I  was  seized  with  an  irrational  fear  lest  some  one  else 
should  do  it  before  me.  This  thought  troubled  the  pro- 
found peace  of  the  night. 

I  have  been  very  happy  this  evening  :  I  have  been  read- 
ing Hamlet  in  English,  and  I  have  been  reveling  in  the 
music  of  Ambroise  Thomas. 

There  are  dramas  that  never  lose  their  power  to  move 
the  souj,  characters  that  are  immortal — "  Ophelia,"  for  in- 
stance, pale  and  fair  !  we  give  her  a  place  in  our  hearts. 
Ophelia  !  She  makes  us  long  to  experience  an  unhappy 
love.  Ophelia  with  her  flowers,  Ophelia  dead  ! — How 
beautiful  is  all  this  ! 

Ah,  if  God  would  only  grant  me  power  to  finish  my  pic- 
ture— my  large  picture,  my  real  picture.  My  picture  for 
this  year  will  be  only  a  sort  of  study — inspired  by  Bastien  ? 


i883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSE1 1-.  323 

Yes,  of  course  ;    his  painting  so  closely  resembles  nature 
that  whoever  copies  nature  faithfully  must  resemble  him. 

His  faces  are  living  faces;  they  are  not  merely  fine  paint- 
ing like  the  faces  of  Carolus,  they  are  art ;  in  short  they 
are  the  real  flesh,  they  breathe,  they  live.  The  question 
here  is  not  one  of  skill,  nor  of  a  fine  touch.  This  is  nature 
itself  ;  it  is  sublime  ! 

Saturday,  February  24. — My  thoughts,  as  you  know,  tire 
constantly  occupied  with  Bastien-Lepage  ;  I  repeat  his 
name  to  myself  continually,  but  I  avoid  speaking  it  aloud, 
as  if  to  do  so  were  something  to  be  ashamed  of.  When  I 
do  mention  it,  it  is  with  a  tender  familiarity  which  would 
seem  to  be  only  natural,  considering  his  genius,  but  which 
might  be  misunderstood. 

Good  heavens  !  what  a  pity  it  is  that  he  cannot  come  to 
see  me,  as  his  brother  does  ! 

And  what  should  I  do  if  he  were  to  come  ?  Make  him 
my  friend,  of  course  !  What !  Do  you  not  believe  there 
is  such  a  feeling  as  friendship  ?  As  for  me  I  could  wor- 
ship those  of  my  friends  who  are  famous,  and  this  not 
through  vanity  alone,  but  also  because  of  the  delight  I  take 
in  their  talents — in  their  intelligence,  their  ability,  their 
genius.  Those  who  are  endowed  with  genius  are  a  race 
apart  ;  when  we  have  escaped  from  the  region  of  medi- 
ocrity we  revel  in  a  purer  atmosphere,  where  we  may  join 
hands  with  the  elect,  and  dance  a  round  in  honor  of— 
What  was  I  about  to  say  ?  But  the  truth  is,  that  Bastien- 
Lepage  has  a  charming  head. 

I  fear,  indeed,  that  my  painting  may  be  found  to  resem- 
ble his.  I  copy  nature  faithfully,  I  know,  but  while  I  am 
doing  so  I  am  thinking  of  his  pictures.  And  then,  an  art- 
ist of  any  genius  who  loves  nature,  and  who  desires  to  copy 
her  faithfully,  will  always  resemble  Bastien. 


324  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1883. 

Tuesday,  February  27. — This  has  been  a  series  of  happy 
days.  I  sing,  I  chat,  I  laugh,  and  the  name  of  Bastien- 
Lepage  recurs  constantly  in  my  thoughts,  like  a  refrain. 
Not  himself,  not  the  corporeal  man,  scarcely  his  genius — 
nothing  but  his  name.  Yet  I  am  filled  with  a  certain  dread. 
What  if  my  picture  were  to  resemble  his  ?  He  has 
lately  painted  a  number  of  boys  and  girls — among  others 
the  celebrated  "  Pas-meche";  what  could  be  finer  than 
this? 

Well,  my  picture  represents  two  little  boys  who  are 
walking  along  the  pavement  holding  each  other  by  the 
hand  ;  the  elder,  a  boy  of  seven,  holds  a  leaf  between  his 
teeth,  and  looks  straight  before  him  into  space  ;  the 
other,  a  couple  of  years  younger,  has  one  hand  thrust 
into  the  pocket  of  his  little  trousers,  and  is  regarding  the 
passers-by. 

This  evening  I  enjoyed  an  hour  of  intense  happiness. 
Why  ?  you  ask.  Did  Saint-Marceaux  or  Bastien  come  ? 
No,  but  I  made  a  sketch  for  my  statue. 

You  have  read  the  word  correctly.  When  the  fifteenth 
of  March  is  past,  it  is  my  intention  to  begin  a  statue.  In 
my  lifetime  I  have  modeled  two  groups,  and  two  or  three 
busts,  all  of  which  I  threw  aside  before  they  were  finished  ; 
for,  working  as  I  did,  alone  and  without  instruction,  I  could 
work  only  at  something  in  which  I  was  interested,  into 
which  I  could  throw  my  life,  my  soul,  as  it  were — 
something  real,  in  short,  not  a  mere  exercise  for  the 
studio. 

To  conceive  a  figure,  to  throw  myself  heart  and  soul  into 
the  work,  this  is  what  I  wish  to  do. 

It  will  be  bad  ?  no  matter  ;  I  was  born  a  sculptor.  I 
carry  my  love  of  form  to  the  point  of  adoration.  Color  can 
never  exercise  the  same  power  over  the  soul  as  form  does, 
though  I  adore  color  also.  But  form  !  A  noble  gesture,  a 
beautiful  attitude,  fixed  in  marble,  look  at  it  from  what 


JEAN  ANP  JACQUES. 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  325 

side  you  will,  the  outlines  may  change,  but  the  figure  still 
preserves  the  same  significance. 

Oh,  happiness  !     Oh,  joy  ! 

The  figure  is  that  of  a  woman  who  stands  weeping,  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands  ;  you  know  what  the  attitude  of 
the  shoulders  is  when  one  weeps. 

I  felt  an  impulse  to  kneel  down  before  it  ;  I  addressed  a 
thousand  foolish  speeches  to  it.  The  clay  model  is  thirty 
centimetres  in  height,  but  the  statue  itself  will  be  life-size. 
But  that  will  be  an  outrage  on  common-sense.  And  why  ? 

Finally  I  tore  up  a  fine  batiste  chemise  in  which  to  wrap 
this  fragile  statuette.  I  love  this  clay  more  dearly  than  my 
own  flesh. 

And  then,  as  my  sight  is  not  very  good,  when  I  can  no 
longer  see  to  paint  I  shall  devote  myself  to  sculpture. 

How  beautiful  this  moist  white  linen  is  as  it  follows  every 
curve  of  this  little  figure.  I  wrapped  it  up  with  a  senti- 
ment of  respect — so  fine,  so  delicate,  so  beautiful  is  it. 

Wednesday,  February  28.— My  picture  will  be  finished 
to-morrow.  I  shall  have  spent  nineteen  days  on  it.  If  I 
had  not  had  to  do  over  one  of  the  boys,  it  would  have  been 
finished  in  a  couple  of  weeks.  But  he  looked  too  old. 

Saturday,  March  3.— Tony  came  to  see  the  picture.  'He 
is  very  much  pleased  with  it.  One  of  the  heads  is  very 
good,  he  says. 

Thursday,  March  15.— My  picture  is  at  last  finished  !  I 
was  still  working  at  it  at  three  o'clock,  but  a  great  many 
visitors  came,  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave  it,— Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  Canrobert,  Alice,  Bojidar,  Alexis,  the  Princess, 
Abbema,  Mme.  Kanchine,  and  Tony  Robert-FIeury  came  in 
the  morning.  They  are  all  going  to  Bastion's  to  sec  his 
picture,  "  L'Amour  au  Village."  It  is  a  young  girl  standing 


326  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

with  her  back  to  the  spectator,  leaning  against  a  hedge  in  an 
orchard  ;  her  eyes  are  bent  upon  the  ground,  and  she  holds 
a  flower  in  her  hand  ;  a  young  man  stands  beside  the 
hedge,  facing  the  spectator ;  his  eyes  also  are  cast  down, 
and  he  is  looking  at  his  fingers  which  he  is  twisting  together. 
The  picture  is  exquisite  in  sentiment  and  full  of  poetry. 

As  for  the  execution — this  is  not  art,  it  is  nature's  self. 
There  is  also  a  little  portrait  of  Madame  Drouot,  the  guard- 
ian-angel of  Victor  Hugo,  which  is  wonderful  in  point  of  truth, 
sentiment,  and  resemblance.  None  of  these  pictures  look 
like  each  other,  even  at  a  distance  ;  they  are  living  beings 
who  pass  before  your  eyes.  He  is  not  a  painter  only,  he 
is  a  poet,  a  psychologist,  a  metaphysician,  a  creator. 

His  own  portrait,  which  stands  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  is 
a  masterpiece.  And  he  has  not  done  his  best  work  yet — 
that  is  to  say,  we  hope  to  see  a  large  picture  from  him,  in 
which  he  will  give  such  proof  of  his  genius  that  no  one  will 
dare  to  deny  it  any  longer. 

The  young  girl,  with  her  hair  in  short  braids,  standing  with 
her  back  to  the  spectator,  is  a  poem. 

No  one  has  ever  penetrated  more  deeply  into  the  realities 
of  life  than  Bastien.  Nothing  can  be  at  the  same  time  more 
elevated  and  more  human  than  his  painting.  That  the 
figures  are  life-size  contributes  to  render  the  truth  of  his 
pictures  more  striking.  Who  can  be  said  to  surpass  him  ? 
The  Italian  painters — painters  of  religious  and,  as  a  con- 
sequence, of  conventional  subjects?  There  are  sublime 
painters  among  them,  but  they  are  necessarily  conventional, 
and  then — their  paintings  do  not  touch  the  heart,  the  soul, 
the  intelligence.  The  Spanish  painters?  Brilliant  and 
charming.  The  French  are  brilliant,  dramatic,  or  academic. 

Millet  and  Breton  are  poets,  no  doubt,  but  Bastien  unites 
everything.  He  is  the  king  of  painters,  not  alone  because 
of  his  wonderful  execution,  but  on  account  of  the  sentiment 
expressed.  The  art  of  observing  could  not  be  carried  fur- 


i88s.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  327 

ther,  and  Balzac  has  said  that  almost  the  whole  of  human 
genius  consists  in  observing  well. 

Thursday,  March  22. — I  sent  for  two  workmen  yesterday, 
who  constructed  the  framework,  life-size,  for  the  statue  I 
had  modeled  in  clay.  And  to-day  I  worked  on  it,  giving  it 
the  pose  I  desired.  My  mind  is  full  of  my  picture,  the 
Holy  Women,  which  I  will  try  to  paint  this  summer ;  and 
in  sculpture,  my  first  thought  is  Ariadne.  Meantime  I  have 
done  this  figure,  which  is,  in  fact,  the  other  Mary  of  the  pic- 
ture. In  sculpture  and  without  drapery,  taking  a  younger 
model,  it  would  make  a  charming  Nausicaa.  She  has 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  is  weeping ;  there  is  in 
her  attitude  so  genuine  an  abandonment,  a  despair  so  com- 
plete, so  naive,  so  sincere,  and  so  touching,  that  I  am  capti- 
vated by  it. 

Sunday,  March  25. — Since  two  o'clock  yesterday  I  have 
been  on  the  rack,  as  you  may  imagine  when  I  tell  you  what 
has  happened. 

Villevielle  came  to  see  me  and  asked  me  if  I  had  heard 
any  news  from  the  Salon.  "  No,"  I  answered.  "  What ! 
you  have  heard  nothing  ?  "  she  said.  "  Nothing."  "  You 
have  passed."  "  I  knew  nothing  of  it."  "  There  can  be  no 
doubt  about  it,  since  they  have  reached  the  letter  C.' 
And  this  is  all.  I  can  scarcely  hold  the  pen  ;  my  hands 
tremble,  I  feel  utterly  powerless. 

Then  Alice  came  and  said  to  me,"  Your  picture  has  been 
accepted." 

11  Accepted— but  how  ?    Without  a  number  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  not  yet  known." 

I  had  no  doubt  about  its  being  accepted. 

And  all  this  has  thrown  mamma,  my  aunt,  and  everybody 
else  into  a  state  of  agitation  that  it  irritates  me  in  the  high- 
est degree  to  see.  I  have  had  to  make  the  greatest  efforts 


328  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAStiKlRTSEFF.          [1883. 

in  order  to  appear  unconcerned,  and  to  bring  myself  to  see 
visitors. 

I  sent  about  forty  telegraphic  despatches.  Later  on  I 
received  a  few  lines  from  Julian,  which  I  copy  here  word 
for  word  :  "  O  naivete  !  O  sublime  ignorance  !  I  am 
going  to  enlighten  you  at  last. 

"  Your  picture  has  been  accepted,  and  with  a  number  3 
at  the  least,  for  there  is  some  one  I  know  who  wished  to  give 
you  a  number  2.  You  have  conquered  at  last.  Greeting 
and  congratulations." 

This  is  not  happiness,  but  it  is  at  least  tranquillity. 

I  do  not  think  that  even  a  number  i  would  have  given 
me  pleasure  after  these  twenty-four  hours'  humiliating  un- 
certainty. They  say  joy  is  more  deeply  felt  after  anxiety. 
Such  is  not  the  case  with  me.  Difficulties,  doubts,  and 
suffering  spoil  everything  for  me. 

Friday,  March  30. — I  worked  until  six  o'clock  ;  as  it  was 
still  daylight  I  opened  the  door  leading  out  into  the  bal- 
cony, in  order  to  hear  the  church  clock  striking,  and  to 
breathe  the  spring  air  while  I  played  upon  the  harp. 

I  am  very  tranquil  ;  I  worked  faithfully  all  day,  after 
which  I  took  a  bath,  dressed  myself  in  white,  and  sat  down 
and  played  upon  the  harp  ;  now  I  am  writing  ;  I  am  calm, 
contented,  and  happy  in  this  apartment  arranged  by  myself, 
where  I  have  everything  I  want  at  hand  ;  it  would  be  so 
pleasant  to  go  on  leading  this  life, — while  waiting  for  fame. 
And  even  if  fame  were  to  come,  I  could  sacrifice  two  months 
in  the  year  to  it,  and  live  shut  up  in  my  room  working  the 
other  ten  months.  And  indeed  it  is  only  by  so  doing  that 
those  two  months  would  be  possible.  What  troubles  me  is 
to  think  that  I  must  one  day  marry,  but  this  is  the  only  way 
in  which  to  escape  the  wounds  my  self-love  is  constantly 
receiving. 

"  Why  does  she  not  marry  ? "  people  ask.     They  say  I 


1333.]          JOCA'.Y.IL  OF  MARIE  />'./. SY/A7A' TSL 1-I-.  329 

am  twenty-five,  and  that  enrages  me  ;  while  if  I  were  once 
married — but  whom  shall  I  marry  ?  If  I  were  only  well, 
as  before.  But  now  if  I  marry,  it  must  be  some  one  who 
has  a  good  heart  and  delicacy  of  feeling.  And  he  must 
love  me,  for  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  marry  a  man  who 
would  leave  me  entirely  to  myself. 

In  all  this  it  is  not  my  heart  that  speaks.  One  cannot 
foresee  everything  ;  and  then  it  would  depend — And  be- 
sides it  may  never  happen.  I  have  just  received  the  fol- 
lowing letter : 

"  PALACE  OF  THE  CHAMPS-ELYS£ES. 
ASSOCIATION  OF  FRENCH  ARTISTS  FOR  THE  AN- 
NUAL  EXHIBITION  OF  THE  FINE  ARTS. 

"  MADEMOISELLE  : 

"  I  write  to  you  here  in  the  committee  room  to  inform  you 
that  the  Head  in  Pastel  has  had  a  genuine  success  with  the 
committee.  Receive  my  heartiest  congratulations.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  your  paintings  have  been  very  well  re- 
ceived. 

"  You  have  met  with  a  genuine  success  this  year,  which 
makes  me  very  happy. 

"  With  friendly  regards, 

"  TONY  ROBERT-FLEURY." 

Well,  and  what  then  ?  The  letter  itself  I  shall  pin  down 
here,  but  I  must  first  show  it  to  a  few  friends.  Do  you 
imagine  I  am  wild  with  joy  ?  Not  at  all ;  lam  quite  calm. 
Doubtless  I  am  not  worthy  of  experiencing  a  great  joy, 
since  such  a  piece  of  news  as  this  causes  me  no  more  emo- 
tion than  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 
And  the  fact  of  the  letter  being  addressed  to  me  makes  it 
lose  much  of  its  significance.  If  I  knew  that  Breslau  had 
received  a  letter  like  it  I  should  be  greatly  troubled.  This 
is  not  because  I  value  only  that  which  I  do  not  possess,  but 
because  of  my  excessive  modesty.  I  lack  confidence  in 
myself.  If  I  were  to  take  this  letter  literally,  I  should  be 


33°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

too  happy.  When  good  fortune  comes  to  me  I  am  slow  to 
believe  in  it.  I  fear  to  rejoice  too  soon.  And  after  all  the 
cause  for  rejoicing  is  not  so  great. 

Saturday,  March  31. — Nevertheless  I  went  to  Julian's 
this  morning,  in  order  to  hear  a  repetition  of  these  flatter- 
ing things.  It  seems  Bouguereau  said  to  him  :  "  You 
have  a  Russian  who  has  sent  something  that  is  not  bad — 
not  at  all  bad."  "  And  you  know,"  added  Julian,  "  that 
this  from  Bouguereau,  where  one  of  his  own  pupils  is  not 
concerned,  means  a  great  deal."  In  short,  it  seems  I  shall 
receive  some  sort  of  mention. 

Sunday,  April  i  ....  I  cough  a  great  deal,  and  although 
I  have  not  grown  visibly  thinner,  I  fear  I  am  seriously 
ill.  Only  I  don't  want  to  think  about  it.  But  if  I  am  seri- 
ously ill,  why  do  I  present  so  healthy  an  appearance  in 
every  way  ? 

I  try  to  discover  some  cause  for  my  sadness,  and  I  can 
find  none,  unless  it  be  that  I  have  done  nothing  for  the  last 
fortnight.  The  statue  is  falling  to  pieces  ;  all  this  has 
made  me  lose  a  great  deal  of  time. 

What  vexes  me  is  that  the  pastel  should  be  thought  so 
good,  and  the  painting  simply  good.  Well,  then  !  I  feel 
that  I  am  capable  now  of  producing  something  equally 
good  in  painting — and  you  shall  see  ! 

I  am  not  sad  ;  but  I  am  feverish,  and  I  find  difficulty  in 
breathing.  It  is  the  right  lung  that  grows  worse,  that 
is  all. 

Tuesday,  April  3. — The  weather  is  delightful  ;  I  feel 
new  strength.  I  feel  that  I  possess  the  power  to  produce 
something  really  good  ;  I  feel  it,  I  am  sure  of  it. 

So,  then,  to-morrow. 

I  feel  within  me   the  capacity  to  render  with  truth  to 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAS1IKIRTSEW.  331 

nature  whatever  strikes  my  imagination.  I  feel  a  new 
force,  a  confidence  in  my  own  powers  that  will  give  me 
thrice  the  ability  to  work  that  I  had  before.  I  shall  begin 
a  picture  to-morrow,  the  subject  of  which  charms  me.  I 
have  another  very  interesting  one  for  later  on  in  the  autumn 
when  the  bad  weather  commences.  I  feel  that  now  every 
stroke  will  tell,  and  I  am  intoxicated  with  the  thought  of 
my  work. 

Red-letter  day,  Wednesday,  April  4. — Six  little  boys  in  a 
group,  their  heads  close  together,  half-length  only.  The 
eldest  is  about  twelve,  the  youngest  six.  The  eldest  of  the 
boys,  who  stands  partly  with  his  back  to  the  spectator,  holds 
a  bird's  nest  in  his  hands,  at  which  the  others  stand  looking. 
The  attitudes  are  varied  and  natural. 

The  youngest  boy,  whose  back  only  is  to  be  seen,  stands 
with  folded  arms  and  head  erect. 

This  seems  commonplace,  according  to  the  description, 
but  in  reality  all  these  heads  grouped  together  will  make  an 
exceedingly  interesting  picture. 

Sunday,  April  15. — My  disease  has  reduced  me  to  a  state 
of  prostration  that  renders  me  indifferent  to  everything. 
Julian  writes  to  say  that  my  picture  is  not  yet  hung  ;  that 
Tony  Robert-Fleury  cannot  PROMISE  (sic)  to  have  it  hung  on 
the  line  ;  but  that,  as  it  is  not  yet  hung,  all  that  can  be  done 
in  the  matter  will  be  done.  That  Tony  Robert-Fleury 
strongly  (sic)  hopes  to  receive  some  slight  recompense  in 
the  shape  of  a  painting  (sic)  or  a  pastel  !  Two  months  ago 
I  had  not  expected  anything  of  the  kind,  yet  I  am  as  in- 
different to  it  all  now  as  if  I  were  not  concerned  in  it. 
This  mention,  which  I  once  thought  it  would  make  me 
faint  with  emotion  to  receive,  now  that  they  tell  me  i 
probable,  almost  certain  indeed,  will,  I  feel,  cause  me  no 
emotion  whatever. 


33 2  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

There  is  a  logic  in  the  events  of  life  by  which  each  event 
prepares  us  for  that  which  is  to  follow  ;  and  this  it  is  that 
diminishes  my  pleasure.  I  should  have  wished  this  news 
to  come  like  a  thunder-clap — I  should  have  wished  the 
medal  to  fall  down  from  the  skies,  as  it  were,  without  giv- 
ing time  to  cry  out  "  Take  care  !  "  and  plunge  me  in  a  sea 
of  happiness. 

Wednesday,  April  18. — If  I  receive  a  mention  this  year,  I 
shall  have  progressed  more  rapidly  than  Breslau,  who  had 
already  studied  hard,  before  commencing  with  Julian.  In 
short — 

I  have  just  been  playing  the  piano.  I  began  by  playing 
the  two  divine  marches  of  Chopin  and  Beethoven,  and  then 
went  on  playing  whatever  chanced  to  come  into  my  head, — 
melodies  so  exquisite  that  I  fancy  I  can  hear  them  still.  Is 
it  not  curious  !  I  could  not  play  a  single  note  of  any  one 
of  them  now,  if  I  were  to  try,  nor  if  I  wished  to  improvise 
could  I  do  so.  The  hour,  the  mood,  a  certain  something  is 
necessary,  yet  the  most  heavenly  harmonies  are  running 
through  my  head.  If  I  had  the  voice  I  could  sing  the  most 
ravishing,  the  most  dramatic,  the  most  original  airs.  To 
what  end  ?  Life  is  too  short ;  it  does  not  give  one  time  to 
accomplish  anything.  I  should  like  to  take  up  sculpture, 
without  giving  up  painting.  Not  that  I  wish  to  be  a  sculp- 
tor, but  because  I  have  visions  of  the  Beautiful  which  I  feel 
an  imperious  necessity  of  giving  form  to. 

Sunday,  April  22. — Two  pastels  only  have  received  a 
number  i — Breslau's  and  mine.  Breslau's  picture  is  not 
hung  on  the  line,  but  her  portrait  of  the  daughter  of  the 
editor  of  Figaro  is  on  the  line.  My  picture  is  not  on  the 
line,  either,  but  Tony  Robert-Fleury  assures  me  that  it 
looks  well,  and  that  the  picture  under  it  is  not  a  large 
one.  The  head  of  Irma  is  on  the  line,  and  in  an  angle — • 


iSS3]         JOL'KXAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSLI-F.  333 

in  a  place  of  honor,  consequently.  In  short,  he  says  my 
pictures  are  well  hung. 

We  have  people  to  dine  with  us  almost  every  evening, 
and  I  often  say  to  myself  as  I  listen  to  their  conversation, 
"  Here  are  people  who  spend  their  lives  doing  nothing  but 
making  silly  or  artificial  remarks.  Are  they  happier  than 
I  ?  "  Their  cares  are  of  a  different  nature,  but  they  suffer 
as  much.  And  they  do  not  take  as  much  enjoyment  in 
everything  as  I  do.  Many  things  escape  their  notice- 
shades  of  language  or  of  coloring,  for  instance,  which  to  me 
are  sources  of  interest  or  of  pleasure,  such  as  are  unknown 
to  vulgar  souls.  But  perhaps  I  am  more  prone  than  most 
people  to  observe  the  beauties  of  nature,  as  well  as  the 
countless  details  of  city  life,  and  if  it  be  true  that  I  am  in 
one  sense  inferior  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  since  I  am  occa- 
sionally unable  to  hear  as  well  as  others,  perhaps  I  am  not 
without  some  compensation  for  it. 

Ah,  no  ;  every  one  knows  it,  and  it  is  the  first  thing  they 
say  to  each  other  when  they  mention  my  name.  "  She  is  a 
little  deaf,  did  you  know  it?"  I  do  not  understand  how  I 
am  able  to  write  the  word.  Is  it  possible  to  accustom  one's- 
self  to  so  terrible  an  affliction  ?  It  is  conceivable  that  this 
should  happen  to  an  old  man  or  to  an  old  woman,  or  to 
some  miserable  creature,  but  not  to  a  young  girl  like  me, 
full  of  ardor,  full  of  energy,  eager  for  life  ! 

Friday,  April  27. — I  think  that  in  art  a  certain  glow  of 
enthusiasm  may  supply  in  some  sort  the  want  of  genius. 
Here  is  a  proof  of  this  :  it  is  six  or  seven  years  since  I 
have  played  on  the  piano  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  have  remained 
for  whole  months  without  touching  it,  and  then  played  five 
or  six  hours  at  a  time  once  or  twice  a  year.  Under  such 
circumstances  the  fingers  lose  their  flexibility,  so  that  I  now 
never  play  before  people  ;  the  merest  school-girl  would  put 
me  in  the  shade. 


334  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

But  let  me  only  hear  a  masterpiece  played,  like  the 
march  of  Chopin,  or  that  of  Beethoven,  for  instance,  let  me 
be  seized  by  the  desire  to  play  it  myself,  and  in  two  or 
three  days,  practicing  not  more  than  an  hour  a  day,  I  shall 
be  able  to  play  it  perfectly,  as  well  as  any  one,  as  Dusautoy, 
for  instance,  who  took  the  first  prize  at  the  Conservatory, 
and  who  practices  constantly. 

Monday,  April  30. — I  have  had  the  happiness  of  talking 
with  Bastien-Lepage. 

He  has  explained  his  Ophelia  to  me  ! 

This  man  is  not  an  ordinary  artist.  He  does  not  regard 
his  subject  from  the  standpoint  of  an  artist,  merely,  but 
from  that  of  a  student  of  human  nature,  also.  His  observ- 
ations revealed  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  most  secret 
recesses  of  the  soul ;  he  does  not  see  in  Ophelia  a  mad  girl 
only,  she  is  a  lovelorn  creature  as  well.  In  her  madness 
there  is  disenchantment,  bitterness,  despair,  hopelessness ; 
she  has  been  disappointed  jn  love,  and  her  disappointment 
has  partly  turned  her  brain.  There  can  be  nothing  sadder, 
more  touching,  more  heart-rending  than  this  picture. 

I  am  wild  about  it.  Ah,  how  glorious  a  thing  is  genius  ! 
This  ugly  little  man  appears  to  me  more  beautiful  and 
more  attractive  than  an  angel.  One  would  like  to  spend 
one's  life  listening  to  him  and  watching  him  in  his  sublime 
labors.  And  then  he  speaks  so  simply.  In  answer  to  a 
remark  of  some  one  he  said,  "  I  find  so  much  poetry  in 
nature,"  with  an  accent  of  such  perfect  sincerity  that  I  was 
inexpressibly  charmed. 

I  exaggerate,  I  feel  that  I  exaggerate.  But  something 
of  this  there  is. 

Tuesday,  May  i. — And  the  Salon  ?  Well,  it  is  worse 
than  usual.  Dagnan  does  not  exhibit.  Sargent  is  medi- 
ocre ;  Gervex  commonplace;  Henner  is  charming;  his 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASUKIRTSEFF.  335 

picture  is  a  nude  figure  of  a  woman  reading.  The  light  is 
artificial,  and  everything  is  bathed  in  a  sort  of  luminous 
mist,  of  so  exquisite  a  tone  that  one  feels  as  though  envel- 
oped in  it.  Jules  Bastien  admires  it  greatly.  A  painting 
of  Cazin's,  that  I  like  less  than  his  landscapes,  is  Judith  de- 
parting from  the  city  to  meet  Holofernes.  I  did  not  look 
at  it  long  enough  to  come  under  its  spell,  but  what  struck 
me  most  forcibly  in  it  was  that  the  attractions  of  Judith  are 
not  sufficient  excuse  for  Holofernes's  infatuation. 

I  am  not  very  enthusiastic  about  Bastien-Lepage's  pic- 
ture. The  two  figures  are  faultless.  The  figure  of  the 
girl  standing  with  her  back  to  the  spectator,  the  head,  of 
which  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  one  cheek,  the  hand  play- 
ing with  a  flower — there  is  in  all  these  a  feeling,  a  poetical 
charm,  and  a  truth  to  nature  which  cannot  be  surpassed. 

The  back  is  a  poem ;  the  hand,  of  which  we  can  just 
catch  a  glimpse,  is  a  masterpiece ;  we  feel  all  that  he  has 
desired  to  express.  The  girl  bends  down  her  head,  and  is 
at  a  loss  as  to  what  she  shall  do  with  her  feet,  which  have 
assumed  an  attitude  of  charming  embarrassment.  The 
young  man  is  very  good  also.  But  the  girl  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  grace,  of  youth,  of  poetry.  The  figure  is  true  to 
nature,  and  full  of  feeling,  delicacy,  and  grace. 

The  landscape,  however,  is  altogether  disagreeable.  Not 
only  is  it  of  too  pronounced  a  green,  but  it  obtrudes  itself 
on  the  eye  as  well.  There  is  a  want  of  space.  Why  is  this  ? 
Some  say  that  the  colors  in  the  background  are  too  thickly 
laid  on.  At  all  events  it  is  heavy. 

And  Breslau  ?  Breslau's  picture  is  good,  but  I  am  not 
quite  pleased  with  it.  It  is  well  executed,  but  the  picture 
expresses  nothing ;  the  coloring  is  graceful,  but  common- 
place. It  represents  a  group — a  brunette  and  a  blonde,  and 
a  young  man — drinking  tea  at  the  fireside,  in  a  bourgeois 
interior,  without  character.  They  all  wear  a  solemn  ex- 
pression ;  the  air  of  sociability  we  look  for  in  such  a  scene 


336  JOURNAL  OF  AIARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

is  wanting.  She  who  talks  so  much  about  sentiment  does 
not  appear  to  be  very  richly  endowed  in  that  respect.  Her 
portrait  is  good,  that  is  all. 

And  1  ? 

Well,  the  head  of  Irma  is  pleasing,  and  the  execution 
sufficiently  bold.  But  the  picture  is  unpretentious. 

The  painting  has  a  somber  look,  and,  although  executed 
in  the  open  air,  it  does  not  look  natural.  The  wall  is  not 
like  a  wall — it  is  the  sky,  a  piece  of  painted  canvas,  any- 
thing you  choose.  The  heads  are  good ;  but  the  back- 
ground is  poor.  They  might  have  given  it  a  better  place, 
however,  especially  as  things  so  inferior  to  it  are  on  the 
line.  Every  one  agrees  that  the  heads — that  of  the  elder 
boy,  particularly — are  very  good.  Probably  I  should  have 
succeeded  better  with  the  rest  of  the  picture,  since  the 
treatment  is  comparatively  easy,  if  I- had  had  more  time. 

Looking  at  my  picture  hanging  there  before  me  I  learned 
more  than  I  could  have  learned  in  six  months  at  the  studio. 
The  Salon  is  a  great  school ;  I  never  understood  this  as 
well  as  now. 

Wednesday,  May  2. — I  ought  to  go  to  the  opera,  but 
what  for?  That  is  to  say,  I  thought  for  a  moment  of 
doing  so  in  order  to  show  myself  to  the  best  advantage ; 
that  Bastien  might  hear  my  beauty  spoken  of.  And  why 
do  this?  I  do  not  know.  Well,  it  was  a  stupid  thought!  Is 
it  not  silly  to  try  to  make  people  like  me  whom  I  care  noth- 
ing about,  and  that  through  pique? — I  shall  think  of  it, 
however,  the  rather  as  it  would  be  in  reality  for  the  King  of 
Prussia  that  I  should  go,  for  after  all  I  have  no  serious 
cause  of  complaint  against  this  great  artist.  Would  I  marry 
him?  No.  Well,  then,  what  do  I  want? 

And  why  seek  to  analyze  every  sentiment  so  minutely. 
I  have  a  wild  desire  to  please  this  great  man,  and  that  is  all. 
And  Saint-Marceaux  as  well.  Which  of  them  most?  No 


1883]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  337 

matter  which:  either  would  do.  It  woulfl  be  an  interest 
in  life.  This  feeling  has  given  a  new  expression  to  my 
face.  I  look  prettier;  my  complexion  is  smooth,  fresh,  and 
blooming;  my  eyes  are  animated  and  brilliant.  At  all 
events  it  is  curious.  What  would  not  real  love  accomplish, 
if  a  silly  fancy  can  produce  an  effect  like  this? 

After  all,  that  is  not  the  question.  Jules  Bastien  dined 
with  us  this  evening.  I  posed  neither  as  a  mad  creature 
nor  a  child.  I  was  neither  silly  nor  mischievous.  He  was 
simple,  gay,  charming;  we  rallied  each  other  incessantly; 
there  was  not  an  instant's  embarrassment.  He  is  very 
intelligent;  and  then  I  do  not  believe  in  specialties  for 
men  of  genius ;  a  man  of  genius  can  be  and  ought  to  be 
everything  he  wishes. 

And  he  is  gay  too;  I  feared  to  see  him  insensible  to  that 
delicate  humor  that  is  half-way  between  wit  and  humbug. 
In  short,  like  Roland's  mare,  he  has  every  quality;  the 
only  thing  is  that  he  is  dead — or  almost  so,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  Is  it  not  stupid? 

Sunday,  May  6. — There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  talk 
about  young  Rochegrosse's  picture.  It  represents  Astyanax 
being  torn  from  the  arms  of  his  mother  Andromache,  to  be 
cast  over  the  ramparts. 

It  is  a  modern  and  original  treatment  of  an  antique  subject. 
He  imitates  no  one  and  seeks  inspiration  from  no  one.  The 
coloring  and  the  execution  are  of  unexampled  vigor— there 
is  no  other  artist  of  the  present  day  who  is  capable  of  them 
In  addition,  he  is  the  son-in-law  of  M.  Th.  de  Banville,— 
so  much  for  the  press. 

Notwithstanding  this  latter  fact,  however,  he  has  wonder- 
ful gifts.  He  is  only  twenty-four,  and  this  is  the  second 
time  he  exhibits. 

This  is  the  way  one  would  like  to  paint— composition, 
color,  drawing,  all  are  indescribably  spirited. 


338        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.       [1883. 

And  this  is  the  quality  expressed  by  his  name — Roche- 
grosse.  It  is  like  the  rumbling  of  thunder.  After  the  idyllic 
Bastien-Lerage.  Georges  Rochegrosse  comes  on  you  like  a 
torrent.  It  is  possible  that  later  on  his  talent  may  become 
more  concentrated,  and  that  he  will  aim  at  being  a  poet  and 
psychologist  in  painting,  like  Bastien-Lepage. 

And  I?  What  does  my  name  express — Marie  Bashkirt- 
seff — I  would  willingly  change  it;  it  has  a  harsh,  bizarre 
sound ;  though  it  has  a  certain  ring  of  triumph  in  it  too;  there 
is  even  a  certain  charm  in  it,  something  expressive  of  arro- 
gance, of  renown ;  but  it  also  has  a  quarrelsome,  jerking 
sound.  Tony  Robert-Fleury — is  it  not  cold  as  an  epitaph? 
And  Bonnat? — correct  and  vigorous  but  short  and  com- 
monplace. Manet  sounds  like  something  incomplete — a 
pupil  who  will  be  known  at  fifty.  Breslau  is  sonorous,  calm, 
powerful.  Sain t-Marceaux  is  like  Bashkirtseff,  nervous,  but 
not  so  harsh.  Henner  is  tranquil  and  mysterious,  with  an 
indescribable  something  in  it  of  antique  grace. 

Carolus  Duran  is  a  mask.  Dagnan  is  subtle,  veiled,  deli- 
cate, sweet,  and  strong,  with  little  beyond  this.  Sargent 
makes  one  think  of  his  painting,  of  the  false  Velasquez,  of 
the  false  Carolus,  not  so  great  as  Velasquez,  yet  good, 
nevertheless. 

Monday,  May  7. — I  have  begun  the  little  gamins  over 
again  from  the  beginning.  I  have  drawn  them  full-length, 
and  on  a  larger  canvas ;  this  will  make  a  more  interesting 
picture. 

Tuesday,  May  8. — I  live  only  for  my  art;  I  go  down- 
stairs only  to  dine,  and  talk  with  no  one. 

I  feel  that  I  am  passing  through  a  new  phase. 

Everything  seems  petty  and  uninteresting,  everything 
except  my  work.  Life,  taken  thus,  may  be  beautiful. 

Wednesday,  May  9. — We  had  some  visitors  this  evening, 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHX1RTSEFF.  339 

who  were  entirely  different  from  our  usual  set  and  who 
would  shock  these  very  much,  but  whom  I  found  very 
entertaining. 

Jules  Bastien,  who  lays  such  stress  on  concentrating  all 
one's  forces  on  one  particular  point,  does  not,  for  his  own 
part,  expend  his  energy  uselessly.  For  myself,  so  supera- 
bundant are  my  energies  that  it  is  a  necessity  with  me  to 
have  some  outlet  for  them.  Of  course,  if  conversation  or 
laughter  fatigues  one,  it  is  better  to  abstain  from  them, 
but — he  must  be  right,  however. 

We  went  up  to  my  studio,  and  I  almost  quarreled  with 
Bastien  to  prevent  him  looking  at  my  large  picture,  the  face 
of  which  was  turned  against  the  wall. 

I  praised  Saint-Marceaux  extravagantly,  and  Jules  Bas- 
tien declared  he  was  jealous  of  him,  and  that  he  would 
never  rest  until  he  had  ousted  him  from  the  place  he  holds 
in  my  regard. 

He  has  said  this  several  times  already ;  and  although  it 
may  be  only  a  jest,  it  delights  me  to  hear  him  say  it. 

I  must  make  him  think  that  I  admire  Saint-Marceaux 
more  than  I  admire  him — in  an  artistic  sense,  of  course. 

"You  like  him,  do  you  not?"  I  said  to  him. 

"Yes,  very  much." 

"Do  you  like  him  as  much  as  I  do?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  am  not  a  woman;  I  like  him,  but— 

"But  it  is  not  as  a  woman  that  I  like  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is  a  little  of  that  in  your  admiration  for 
him." 

"No,  indeed,  I  assure  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  unconsciously  there  is." 

"Ah,  can  you  suppose — ?" 

"Yes,  and  I  am  jealous  of  him;  I  am  not  dark  and 
handsome,  as  he  is." 

"He  resembles  Shakspeare.' 

"You  see!" 


340  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1883. 

The  real  Bastien  is  going  to  hate  me !  And  why  should 
he  hate  me?  I  do  not  know,  but  I  fear  that  he  will. 
There  is  always  a  certain  feeling  of  hostility  between  us — 
little  things  one  cannot  explain,  but  that  one  feels.  We 
are  not  in  sympathy  with  each  other;  yet  I  have  gone  out 
of  my  way  to  say  things  before  him  that  might  perhaps — 
make  him  like  me  a  little. 

In  regard  to  art  we  think  alike,  but  I  dare  not  speak  of 
art  in  his  presence.  Is  this  because  I  feel  that  he  does  not 
like  me? 

In  short,  there  is  a  something — 

Friday,  May  18. — To  set  my  heart  upon  possessing  the 
friendship  of  Bastien-Lepage  would  be  to  give  too  much 
importance  to  this  feeling,  to  distort  it,  so  to  say,  and  to 
place  myself,  in  my  own  eyes,  in  a  false  position.  His 
friendship  would  have  been  a  great  pleasure  to  me,  as  Caz- 
in's  or  Saint-Marceaux's  would  be;  but  I  am  vexed  to  think 
I  should  have  let  my  thoughts  dwell  upon  him  personally — 
he  is  not  sufficiently  great  for  that.  He  is  not  a  demigod 
in  art,  like  Wagner,  and  it  is  only  in  such  a  case  that  it 
would  be  admissible  to  entertain  a  profound  admiration 
for  him. 

What  I  long  for  is  to  gather  around  me  an  interesting 
circle,  but  every  time  this  hope  seems  about  to  be  realized 
something  happens  to  interfere;  here  is  mamma  gone  to 
Russia,  papa  dying,  perhaps. 

I  had  planned  to  give  a  dinner  followed  by  a  reception, 
every  Thursday^  for  instance,  for  society  people,  and  on 
Saturday  another  dinner  for  artists ;  at  the  receptions  on 
Thursdays  I  would  have  the  most  distinguished  of  the 
artists,  who  had  dined  with  me  on  the  previous  Saturday. 

And  now  there  is  an  end  to  all  this ;  but  I  will  try  again 
next  year  to  carry  out  my  plan,  as  tranquilly  as  if  I  were 
conscious  of  the  power  to  succeed,  as  patiently  as  if  I  were 


1883-1         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  341 

to  live  forever,  and  as  perseveringly  as  if  I  had  been 
already  successful. 

I  am  going  to  begin  a  panel — Spring:  A  woman  leaning 
against  a  tree,  her  eyes  closed,  and  smiling  as  if  she  were 
in  a  beautiful  dream.  Around  is  a  delicate  landscape — 
tender  greens,  faint  rose-tints,  apple  and  peach  trees  in 
blossom,  budding  leaves — all  that  gives  to  Spring  its  magic 
coloring. 

Bastien-Lepage  is  going  to  paint  a  picture  representing 
the  burial  of  a  young  girl,  and  his  views  in  art  are  so  just 
that  he  will  be  sure  to  make  the  landscape  like  this  that  I 
have  been  dreaming  of.  I  hope  it  will  not  prove  so,  how- 
ever, and  that  he  will  give  us  a  landscape  of  a  vile  green, 
instead — yet  it  would  vex  me  if  he  did  not  make  a  sublime 
picture  of  this  subject. 

Sunday,  May  20. — Mamma  arrived  in  Russia  early  on 
Friday  morning;  we  received  a  dispatch  from  her  on  Satur- 
day in  which  she  says  that  papa's  health  is  in  a  deplorable 
state. 

To-day  his  valet  writes  that  his  condition  is  desperate. 
He  says,  too,  that  he  suffers  greatly;  I  am  glad  mamma 
arrived  in  time. 

To-morrow  the  distribution  of  prizes  takes  place,  and  the 
Salon  is  to  be  closed  for  three  days.  On  Thursday  it  will 
be  re-opened. 

I  dreamed  that  I  saw  a  coffin  placed  upon  my  bed,  and 
that  I  was  told  a  young  girl  was  lying  in  it.  And  through 
the  surrounding  darkness  glowed  a  phosphorescent  light. 

Tuesday,  May  22. — I  worked  till  half-past  seven;  but  at 
every  noise  I  hear,  every  time  the  bell  rings,  every  time 
Coco  barks,  my  heart  sinks  into  my  boots.  How  i-xpiv- 
sive  this  saying  is;  we  have  it  also  in  Russia.— It  is  nine 
o'clock  and  no  news  yet — how  many  emotions!  If  I  ro 


342  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

nothing,  it  will  be  very  exasperating!  They  were  all  so 
sure  of  it  at  the  studio — Julian,  Lefebvre,  and  Tony  have 
spoken  so  much  of  it  among  themselves,  that  it  cannot  be 
but  that  I  shall  receive  something.  In  that  case  they  might 
have  telegraphed  it  to  mej  one  can  never  hear  good  news 
too  soon. 

Ah,  if  I  had  received  anything  I  should  have  heard  of  it 
already. 

I  have  a  slight  headache. 

Not  that  it  is  of  so  much  consequence,  however;  but 
every  one  was  so  sure  of  it — and  then  uncertainty  about 
anything  is  odious. 

And  my  heart  is  beating,  beating.  Miserable  existence! 
This,  and  everything  else,  and  all  for  what?  To  end  in 
death ! 

No  one  escapes — this  is  the  fate  of  all.    . 

To  end,  to  end,  to  exist  no  longer — this  is  what  is  horri- 
ble. To  be  gifted  with  genius  enough  to  last  for  an  eter- 
nity— and  to  write  stupid  things  with  a  trembling  hand 
because  the  news  of  having  received  a»  miserable  mention 
delays  in  coming. 

They  have  just  brought  me  a  letter;  my  heart  stood  still 
for  a  moment — it  was  from  Doucet  about  the  waist  of  a  dress. 

I  am  going  to  take  some  syrup  of  opium  to  calm  my 
nerves.  To  see  my  agitation  one  would  suppose  I  had 
been  thinking  about  my  Holy  Women ;  the  picture  is  all 
sketched  in,  and  when  I  work  on  it  or  think  of  it,  I  am  in 
the  same  state  of  agitation  as  at  present. 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  fix  my  thoughts  upon  anything. 

A  quarter-past  nine.  It  could  not  be  that  the  discreet 
Julian  should  have  committed  himself  as  he  has  done,  and 
that  I  should  not  receive  it!  But,  then,  this  silence! 

My  cheeks  are  burning;  I  feel  as  if  I  were  enveloped  in 
flame :  I  have  sometimes  had  bad  dreams  in  which  I  have 
felt  like  this. 


1883.]      JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEPF.         343 

It  is  only  twenty-five  minutes  past  nine. 

Julian  ought  to  have  come  before  this;  he  must  have 
known  at  six  o'clock;  he  would  have  come  to  dine  with  us — 
I  have  received  nothing  then. 

I  thought  that  my  picture  would  be  refused  when  there 
was  no  possibility  of  that  being  the  case.  But  that  I  should 
receive  nothing  now  is  very  possible. 

I  have  just  been  watching  the  carriages  as  they  passed. 
Ah,  it  is  now  too  late! 

There  is  no  medal  of  honor  for  painting,  and  Dalou  will 
have  received  the  medal  for  sculpture. 

What  does  this  matter  to  me? 

Would  I  have  given  Bastien  the  medal  of  honor?  No. 
He  can  do  better  than  this  ' '  Amour  au  Village, ' '  consequently 
he  does  not  deserve  it.  They  might  have  given  it  to  him 
for  his  sublime  "Jeanne  d'Arc,"  the  landscape  in  which  dis- 
pleased me  three  years  ago. 

I  should  like  to  look  at  it  again. 

Thursday,  Mav  24. — I  have  received  it !  And  I  am  once 
more  reassured  ami  tranquil,  not  to  say  happy.  I  might 
say  satisfied. 

I  learned  it  from  the  papers.  Those  gentlemen  have  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  write  me  a  word  about  it. 

Nothing  is  ever  so  good  or  so  bad  in  reality  as  it  is  in  the 
anticipation. 

Monday,  June  ii.— My  father  is  dead. 

We  received  the  dispatch  announcing  his  death  at  ten 
o'clock  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  few  minutes  since.  My  aunt  and 
Dina  thought  mamma  ought  to  return  here  at  once  without 
waiting  for  the  interment.  I  went  to  my  room  very  much 
agitated,  but  I  shed  no  tears.  When  Rosalie  came  to  show 
me  my  new  gown,  however,  I  said  to  her,  "It  is  not  worth 
while,  Monsieur  is  dead,"  and  1  burst  into  an  uncontrollable 
fit  of  weeping. 


344  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1883. 

Have  I  anything  to  reproach  myself  with  concerning  him  ? 
I  do  not  think  so.  I  have  always  tried  to  do  my  duty 
toward  him.  But  in  moments  like  these  one  always  thinks 
one's-self  in  some  way  to  blame.  I  ought  to  have  gone 
with  mamma. 

He  was  only  fifty  years  old.  And  he  had  suffered  so 
much  !  And  he  had  never  injured  any  one.  He  was  be- 
loved by  all  around  him ;  he  was  strictly  honorable  in  all 
his  dealings,  upright,  and  an  enemy  to  all  intrigue. 

Friday,  June  15. — The  Canroberts  have  written  me  a 
charming  letter  ;  indeed  everyone  has  shown  me  the  great- 
est sympathy. 

This  morning,  not  expecting  to  meet  any  one  I  knew,  I 
ventured  to  go  to  the  Petit  hall — an  exhibition  of  a  hun- 
dred masterpieces  for  a  benefit  of  some  kind, — of  Decamps, 
Delacroix,  Fortuny,  Rembrandt,  Rousseau,  Millet,  Meis- 
sonier  (the  only  living  artist  represented)  and  others.  And 
in  the  first  place  I  must  apologize  to  Meissonier,  of  whom  I 
had  little  previous  knowledge,  and  who  had  only  very  in- 
ferior compositions  at  the  last  exhibition  of  portraits.  Yes, 
these  are  literally  marvels  of  art. 

But  what  had  chiefly  induced  me  to  leave  my  seclusion 
was  the  desire  to  see  the  paintings  of  Millet,  of  whom  I  had 
heretofore  seen  nothing,  and  whose  praises  were  continually 
dinned  into  my  ears.  "  Bastien  is  only  a  weak  imitator  of 
his,"  they  said.  Finally  I  was  tempted  to  go.  I  looked  at 
all  his  pictures,  and  I  shall  go  back  again  to  look  at  them. 
Bastien  is  an  imitator  of  his,  if  you  will,  because  both  are 
great  artists  and  both  depict  peasant  life,  and  because  all 
genuine  masterpieces  bear  a  family  resemblance  to  each 
other. 

Cazin's  landscapes  resemble  Millet's -much  more  closely 
than  do  those  of  Bastien.  What  is  most  admirable  in 
Millet,  judging  from  the  six  paintings  I  saw  at  the  Exhibi- 


l833.j         JOURXAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  345 

tion,  is  the  general  effect,  the  harmonious  arrangement, 
the  atmosphere,  the  transparency.  The  figures  are  unim- 
portant and  are  simply  treated,  but  broadly  and  correctly. 
And  this  it  is  in  which  Bastien  has  no  equal  to-day — the 
execution,  at  once  careful,  spirited  and  vigorous,  of  his 
human  figures — his  perfect  imitation  of  nature.  His  "  Soir 
au  Village,"  which  is  only  a  sketch  of  small  dimensions,  is 
certainly  equal  to  anything  of  the  kind  of  Millet's  ;  there  are 
in  it  only  two  small  figures  dimly  seen  in  the  twilight.  I  can- 
not think  of  his  "  Amour  au  Village,"  however,  with  patience. 
How  faulty  is  the  background  !  How  is  it  that  he  cannot 
see  this  ?  Yes,  in  the  larger  paintings  of  Bastien  there  is 
wanting  the  tone,  the  general  effect,  that  make  the  small 
pictures  of  Millet  so  remarkable.  Whatever  may  be  said  to 
the  contrary,  everything  else  in  a  picture  should  be  subor- 
dinate to  the  figure. 

"  Le  Pere  Jacques"  in  its  general  effect  is  superior  to 
"  L'Amour  au  Village  ";  this  is  the  case  with  "  Les  Foins," 
also.  "  Le  Pere  Jacques  "  is  full  of  poetry  ;  the  girl  gather- 
ing flowers  is  charming,  and  the  old  man  is  well  executed.  I 
know  that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  give  a  large  picture  that 
character,  at  once  soft  and  vigorous,  which  is  distinctive  of 
Millet,  but  this  is  what  must  be  aimed  at ;  in  a  smaller  pic- 
ture many  details  may  be  slighted.  I  speak  of  those  pictures 
in  which  the  execution  is  everything  (not  of  those  of  the  over- 
scrupulous Meissonier),  like  those  of  Cazin,  for  example, 
who  is  the  disciple  of  Millet.  In  a  small  picture  that  indes- 
cribable quality  called  charm,  which  is  a  result  of  the 
general  effect  rather  than  of  any  particular  detail,  may  be 
given  with  a  few  happy  strokes  of  the  brush,  while  in  a 
large  picture  this  is  not  the  case— there  feeling  must  rest 
on  a  basis  of  science. 

Saturday.  June  16.— So  then,  I  withdraw  from  Bastion's 
paintings  the  title  of  masterpieces.  And  why?  Is  it  be- 


346  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIR TSEFF.          [1883. 

cause  his  "  Amour  au  Village  "  shocks  me,  or  because  I  have 
not  the  courage  of  my  opinions  ?  We  can  only  deify  those 
who  are  no  longer  living;  if  Millet  were  not  dead,  what 
would  be  said  of  him  ?  And  then  there  are  only  six  paint- 
ings of  Millet's  here.  Could  we  not  find  six  equally  excel- 
lent paintings  among  those  of  Bastien  ?  "  Pas-meche," 
"Jeanne  d'Arc,"  the  portrait  of  his  brother,  the  "Soir  au 
Village,"  "  Les  Foins."  I  have  not  seen  all  his  paintings, 
and  he  is  not  dead.  Bastien  is  less  the  disciple  of  Millet 
than  is  Cazin,  who  resembles  him  greatly — with  the  dif- 
ference that  he. is  younger.  Bastien  is  original;  he  is 
himself.  One  always  imitates  some  one  at  first,  but  one's 
own  personality  gradually  asserts  itself.  And  then  poetry, 
vigor,  and  grace  are  always  the  same,  and  it  would  be 
disheartening,  indeed,  if  the  attempt  to  attain  them  were 
to  be  called  imitation.  A  picture  of  Millet  fills  you  with 
admiration,  one  of  Bastien's  produces  the  same  effect  upon 
you  ;  what  does  that  prove  ? 

People  of  shallow  minds  say  this  is  the  result  of  imita- 
tion ;  they  are  wrong  ;  two  different  actors  may  move  you 
in  the  same  manner,  because  genuine  and  intense  emotion 
is  always  the  same. 

Etincelle  devotes  a  dozen  flattering  lines  to  me.  I  am  a 
remarkable  artist.  I  am  a  young  girl,  and  a  pupil  of  Bastien- 
Lepage.  Mark  that ! 

I  saw  a  bust  of  Renan  by  Saint-Marceaux,  and  yesterday 
I  saw  Renan  himself  pass  by  in  a  fiacre.  At  least  the  likes 
ness  is  good. 

Monday,  June  18. — Here  is  a  little  incident  :  I  had 
granted  an  interview  for  eleven  o'clock  this  morning  to  the 
correspondent  of  the  New  Times  (of  St.  Petersburg),  who 
had  written  to  me  requesting  one.  It  is  a  very  important 

periodical;  and  this  M.  B. has  contributed  to  it,  among 

Other  things,  some  studies  on  our  painters  in  Parts,  and — 


I883-]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSE1-F.  347 

"  as  you  occupy  a  conspicuous  place  among  them,  I  hope 
you  will  permit  me,"  etc. 

Before  going  downstairs  I  left  him  alone  with  my  aunt 
for  a  few  minutes,  that  she  might  prepare  the  way  by  telling 
him  how  young  I  was,  and  other  things  of  the  kind,  for  the 
sake  of  effect.  He  looked  at  all  my  pictures,  and  took 
notes  of  them.  "  When  did  I  begin  to  paint,"  he  asked, 
"  at  what  age,  and  under  what  circumstances?"  and  so  on. 
I  am  an  artist  on  whom  the  correspondent  of  a  great  news- 
paper is  going  to  write  an  article. 

This  is  a  beginning;  it  is  the  mention  that  has  procured 
me  this.  Provided  only  that  the  article  be  a  favorable 
one.  I  do  not  know  if  the  notes  were  correct,  because  I 
did  not  hear  all  that  was  said,  and  then  the  situation  was 
embarrassing. 

It  was  my  aunt  and  Dina  who  told  him — what  ?  I  shall 
await  this  article  with  anxiety — and  it  will  not  appear  for  a 
fortnight. 

They  laid  particular  stress  upon  my  youth. 

Thursday,  June  21. — To-morrow  the  distribution  of 
prizes  takes  place  ;  they  have  sent  me  a  list  of  the  prizes  to 
be  given,  with  my  name  on  it  (section  of  painting);  this  is 
pleasant ;  but  I  have  some  hesitation  about  being  present — 
it  is  hardly  worth  while,  and  then  if — 

What  am  I  afraid  of  ?     I  cannot  tell. 

Friday,  June  22. — I  thought  for  an  instant,  as  I  looked 
at  the  people  present,  that  it  would  be  terrible  to  rise  and 
go  forward  to  that  table. 

My  aunt  and  Dina  were  seated  behind  me,  for  only  those 
who  were  to  receive  prizes  had  the  right  to  chairs. 

Well,  the  day  is  at  last  over,  and  it  was  altogether  difler- 
ent  from  what  I  had  thought  it  would  be. 

Oh,  to  receive  a  medal   next  year,  and  to  realize  my 


34§  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

dreams  at  last  !  To  be  applauded,  to  achieve  a  triumph  ! 
And  when  I  have  received  a  second-class  medal,  no  doubt 
I  shall  want  a  first-class  one  ?  Of  course. 

And  after  that  the  cross  ?  Why  not  ?  And  afterward  ? 
And  afterward  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  my  labors,  of  my  strug- 
gles, to  go  on  working,  to  make  as  much  progress  as  pos- 
sible, to  try  to  be  happy,  to  love  and  to  be  loved. 

Yes,  afterward  we  shall  see  ;  there  is  no  hurry.  I  shall 
be  neither  uglier  nor  older,  so  to  say,  in  five  years  to  come 
than  I  am  to-day.  And  if  I  were  to  marry  hastily  now,  I 
might  repent  it.  But,  after  all,  it  is  indispensable  for  me 
to  marry ;  I  am  twenty-two  years  old,  and  people  take  me 
to  be  older ;  not  that  I  look  to  be  so,  but  when  I  was  thir- 
teen, when  we  lived  in  Nice,  I  was  taken  to  be  seventeen, 
and  I  looked  it. 

In  short,  to  marry  some  one  who  truly  loved  me  j  other- 
wise I  should  be  the  most  unhappy  of  women.  But  it 
would  be  necessary  that  this  some  one  should  be  at  least  a 
suitable  parti. 

To  be  famous  !  illustrious  ! — that  would  settle  every- 
thing. No,  I  must  not  expect  to  meet  an  ideal  being  who 
would  respect  me  and  love  me,  and  who  would,  besides,  be 
a.  good  parti. 

Ordinary  people  are  afraid  of  famous  women,  and 
geniuses  are  rare. 

June  24. — I  have  been  thinking  lately  of  the  nonsensical 
things  I  used  to  write  about  Pietro.  As,  for  instance, 
when  I  said  that  I  always  thought  of  him  in  the  evenings, 
and  that  if  he  were  to  come  to  Nice  unexpectedly  I  would 
throw  myself  into  his  arms.  And  people  thought  I  was 
in  love  with  him — my  readers  may  think  so. 

And  this  has  never,  never,  never,  been  the  case. 

Yet  often  of  a  summer  evening,  when  vague  longings  fill 
the  soul,  one  feels  that  one  would  like  to  throw  one's-self 


i833.]         JOLWAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  349 

into  the  arms  of  a  lover.  This  has  happened  to  me  a  hun- 
dred times.  But  then  this  lover  had  a  name,  he  was  a  real 
being  whom  I  could  call  by  his  name— Pietro.  But  enough 
of  Pietro  ! 

I  had  a  fancy  for  being  the  grandniece  of  the  Cardinal, 
who  might  one  day  become  Pope— but— nothing  more. 

No,  I  have  never  been  in  love ;  and  now  I  never  shall  be 
in  love.  A  man  must  be  very  superior  to  other  men  to 
please  me  now  that  I  have  grown  so  exacting ;  he  must 
be.  And  to  fall  in  love  with  some  young  fellow,  simply 
because  he  is  charming — no,  that  can  never  be. 

Tuesday,  July  3. — The  picture  does  not  go  forward.  I 
am  in  despair.  And  there  is  nothing  to  console  me  for  it. 

At  last  the  article  in  the  New  Times  has  appeared.  It 
is  very  good,  but  it  causes  me  some  embarrassment,  as  it 
states  that  I  am  only  nineteen,  while  I  am  older,  and  am 
taken  to  be  even  older  than  I  am. 

But  it  will  produce  a  great  effect  in  Russia. 

And  love — what  of  that  ? 

What  is  love  ?  I  have  never  experienced  the  emotion, 
for  passing  fancies  founded  on  vanity  cannot  be  called  by 
that  name.  I  have  preferred  certain  persons  because  the 
imagination  needs  something  with  which  to  occupy  itself. 
I  have  preferred  them  because  to  do  so  was  a  necessity  to 
my  great  soul,  not  because  of  their  own  merits.  There  was 
this  difference,  and  it  is  an  enormous  one. 

To  turn  to  another  subject — that  of  art ;  I  scarcely  know 
how  I  am  progressing  in  painting.  I  copy  Bastien-Lepage, 
and  that  is  deplorable.  An  imitator  can  never  be  the  equal 
of  the  master  he  copies.  One  can  never  be  great  until  one 
has  discovered  a  new  channel  through  which  to  express 
one's  nature,  a  medium  for  the  interpretation  of  one's  own 
individual  impressions. 

My  art  has  ceased  to  exist. 


35°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

I  can  discern  a  trace  of  it  in  the  "  Holy  Women  ";  but  in 
what  else  ?  In  sculpture  it  is  different,  but  as  for  painting  ! 

In  the  "  Holy  Women  "  I  imitate  no  one.  And  I  think  the 
picture  will  produce  a  great  effect,  not  only  because  I  shall 
try  to  execute  the  material  part  of  the  work  with  the  utmost 
truth  to  nature,  but  also  because  of  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  subject  inspires  me. 

The  picture  of  the  little  boys  reminds  one  of  Bastien- 
Lepage,  though  the  subject  is  taken  from  the  street,  and  is 
a  very  commonplace,  every-day  one.  But  this  artist  always 
causes  me  an  indescribable  feeling  of  uneasiness. 

Saturday,  July  14. — Have  you  read  "  L'Amour  "  of  Stend- 
hal ?  I  am  reading  it. 

Either  I  have  never  been  in  love  in  my  life,  or  I  have 
never  ceased  to  be  in  love  with  an  imaginary  being. 
Which  is  it? 

Read  this  book ;  it  is  even  more  delicate  than  anything 
of  Balzac  ;  it  is  more  profoundly  true,  more  harmonious, 
and  more  poetical.  And  it  expresses  divinely  what  every 
one  has  felt,  what  I  myself  have  felt.  But  then  I  have 
always  been  too  much  given  to  analyzing  my  emotions. 

I  was  never  really  in  love,  except  at  Nice,  when  I  was  a 
child  and  ignorant  of  the  world. 

And  afterward  when  I  had  a  sickly  fancy  for  that  hor- 
rible Pietro. 

I  can  remember  moments  alone  in  my  balcony  at  Nice, 
listening  to  some  delightful  serenade,  when  I  felt  trans- 
ported with  ecstatic  joy,  without  any  other  cause  for  it  than 
was  to  be  found  in  the  hour,  the  scene,  and  the  music. 

I  have  never  experienced  these  feelings  either  in  Paris  or 
anywhere  else,  except  in  Italy. 

Friday,  August  3. — Bastien-Lepage  is  enough  to  drive 
one  to  despair.  When  one  studies  nature  closely,  when  one 


1883]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK'IRTSEFF.  351 

seeks  to  imitate  her  faithfully,  it  is  impossible  not  to  think 
constantly  of  the  works  of  this  great  artist. 

He  possesses  the  secret  of  rendering  flesh  with  perfec- 
tion ;  they  talk  of  realism,  but  the  realists  do  not  know 
what  reality  is  ;  they  are  coarse,  a«d  think  they  are  natural. 
Realism  does  not  consist  in  copying  a  vulgar  thing,  but  in 
making  the  copy  of  whatever  be  represented  an  exact  one. 

Sunday,  August  5. — People  say  that  I  had  a  romantic 

fancy  for  C ,  and  that  that  is  the  reason  1  do  not  marry, 

for  they  cannot  understand  why,  having  a  handsome  dowry, 
1  am  yet  neither  a  marquise  nor  a  countess. 

Fools  !  Happily  you,  the  few  superior  people  who  read 
me,  you,  my  beloved  confidants,  know  what  to  believe. 
But  when  you  read  these  words,  all  those  of  whom  I  speak 

will  probably  be  dead,  and  C will  carry  to  the  tomb  the 

sweet  conviction  of  having  been  loved  by  "a -young  and 
beautiful  foreigner,  who,  enamoured  of  this  cavalier,"  etc. 
Fool  !  Others  also  will  believe  it— fools  !  But  you  know 
very  well  that  this  is  not  the  case.  It  would,  perhaps,  be 
romantic  to  refuse  marquises  for  the  sake  of  love  ;  but  it  is 
reason,  alas  !  that  causes  me  to  refuse  them. 

Sunday,  August  12. — The  bare  idea  that  Bastien-Lepage 
is  coming  here  has  made  me  so  nervous  that  I  have  not 
been  able  to  do  anything.  It  is  truly  ridiculous  to  be  so 
impressionable. 

Our  Pope  dined  with  us.  Bastien-Lepage  is  very  in- 
telligent, but  less  brilliant  than  Saint-Marceaux. 

I  showed  him  nothing  of  my  work  ;  I  scarcely  spoke  ; 
that  is  to  say,  I  did  not  shine ;  and  when  Bastien-Lepage 
introduced  an  interesting  subject  I  could  not  answer  him, 
nor  even  follow  his  remarks,  which  were  as  terse  and  full 
of  meaning  as  his  paintings  are.  If  it  had  been  Julian,  I 
should  have  taken  the  lead,  for  this  is  the  style  of  conver- 


352  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

sation  I  like  best.  He  is  very  well-informed,  and  has  a 
keen  intellect,  while  I  had  feared  to  find  him  in  some 
measure  ignorant. 

In  short,  when  he  said  things  to  which  I  should  have  re- 
sponded in  such  a  way  as'  to  reveal  the  fine  qualities  of  my 
head  and  heart,  I  let  him  go  on  speaking  and  remained 
silent. 

I  can  scarcely  even  write,  so  completely  has  the  day 
upset  me. 

I  desire  to  be  alone,  completely  alone,  so  as  to  commune 
with  myself  regarding  the  impression  he  made  upon  me, 
which  was  profound  and  interesting  ;  ten  minutes  after  his 
arrival  I  had  mentally  capitulated  and  acknowledged  his 
mastery. 

1  did  not  say  a  single  word  that  I  ought  to  have  said  ; 
he  is  indeed  a  god,  and  he  is  conscious  of  his  power  ;  and 
I  have  contributed  to  strengthen  him  in  this  belief.  He  is 
small,  he  is  ugly,  in  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar  crowd,  but  for 
me  and  for  people  like  me  he  has  a  charming  countenance. 
What  is  his  opinion  of  me?  I  was  embarrassed  ;  I  laughed 
too  frequently  ;  he  says  he  is  jealous  of  Saint-Marceaux. 
What  a  triumph  ! 

Tuesday,  August  21. — No,  I  shall  not  die  until  I  am 
about  forty,  like  Mile.  Colignon.  At  thirty-five  I  shall 
grow  very  ill,  and  at  thirty-six  or  thirty-seven,  a  winter  in 
bed,  and  all  will  be  over. 

And  my  will  ?  All  I  shall  ask  in  it  will  be  a  statue  and  a 
picture,  the  one  by  Saint-Marceaux,  the  other  by  Jules 
Bastien-Lepage,  placed  in  a  conspicuous  position  in  a 
chapel  in  Paris,  and  surrounded  by  flowers  ;  and  on  each 
anniversary  of  my  death  that  a  mass  of  Verdi  or  of  Pergo- 
lesi,  and  other  music,  may  be  sung  by  the  most  celebrated 
singers  in  remembrance  of  me. 

Besides  this,  I  shall  found  a  prize  for  artists  of  both  sexes, 


1883.]        JOORtfAL  OF  MARIE  nA$HK>IRTSl:l-i-\  353 

I  should,  indeed,  prefer  to  live,  but  as  I  am  not  gifted 
with  genius,  it  is  better  that  I  should  die. 

Wednesday,  August  29. — Notwithstanding  the  heat,  I  cough 
continually,  and,  and,  as  I  was  reclining  half-asleep  on  the 
divan  this  afternoon,  while  my  model  was  resting,  I  had  a 
vision  in  which  I  saw  myself  lying  on  a  couch,  with  a  large 
wax  taper  standing  lighted  beside  me. 

That  will  be  the  denouement  of  all  these  miseries. 

To  die  ?     I  very  much  fear  so. 

And  I  do  not  wish  to  die  ;  it  would  be  horrible.  I  don't 
know  how  the  case  may  be  as  regards  happy  people,  but  as 
for  me,  I  am  greatly  to  be  pitied,  since  I  have  ceased  to 
expect  anything  from  God.  When  this  supreme  refuge 
fails  us  there  is  nothing  left  us  but  to  die.  Without  God 
there  can  be  neither  poetry,  nor  affection,  nor  genius,  nor 
love,  nor  ambition. 

Thursday,  September  13. — Stendhal  says  that  our  sor- 
rows seem  less  bitter  when  we  idealize  them.  This  observa- 
tion is  a  very  just  one.  But  how  shall  I  idealize  mine?  It 
would  be  impossible  !  They  are  so  bitter,  so  prosaic,  so 
frightful,  that  I  cannot  speak  of  them,  even  here,  without 
suffering  horribly.  How  say  that  at  times  I  cannot  hear 
well  ?  Well,  the  will  of  God  be  done  !  This  phrase  recurs 
to  my  mind  involuntarily,  and  I  have  almost  come  to  feel 
it.  For  I  shall  die,  quite  naturally  and  peacefully,  notwith- 
standing all  the  care  I  can  bestow  upon  myself.  And  this 
would  be  as  well,  for  I  am  troubled  about  my  eyes  ;  for  a 
fortnight  past  I  have  been  able  neither  to  paint  nor  to 
read,  and  I  am  growing  no  better.  I  feel  a  throbbing  sensa- 
tion in  them,  and  little  dark  specks  seem  to  float  before  me 
in  the  air. 

Perhaps  this  is  because  I  have  been  suffering  for  the  last 
fortnight  from  a  bronchial  cold,  which  would  have  made 


354  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

any  one  else  take  to  bed,  but  notwithstanding  which  I  go 
about  as  usual,  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter. 

I  have  worked  on  Dina's  portrait  in  so  tragical  a  mood 
that  I  shall  have  more  gray  hairs  when  I  am  done  with  it. 

Saturday,  September  15. — This  morning  I  went  to  the 
Salon  to  see  Bastien's  pictures.  What  shall  I  say  of  them  ? 
Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful.  There  are  three  por- 
traits which,  according  to  Julian,  who  dines  with  us  this 
evening,  are  the  despair  of  .artists.  Yes,  the  despair. 
Never  has  there  been  anything  done  to  equal  them.  They 
are  life-like ;  they  are  endowed  with  soul.  The  execution 
is  so  admirable  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  compared  to  it ; 
it  is  nature  itself.  One  must  be  mad  to  go  on  painting 
after  seeing  these. 

There  is  also  a  little  picture  called  "  Les  bles  Murs."  A 
man  with  his  back  to  the  spectator  is  reaping.  The  picture 
is  good. 

There  are  two  pictures  life-size.  "  Les  Foins  "  and  "  Les 
Ramasseuses  de  pommes  de  terre." 

What  coloring  !  What  composition  !  What  execution  ! 
There  is  a  richness  of  tone  in  them  that  is  to  be  found  only 
in  nature  itself.  And  the  figures  live  ! 

The  tones  blend  into  one  another  with  a  simplicity  which 
is  the  perfection  of  art,  and  the  eye  follows  each  with  genu- 
ine delight. 

When  I  entered  the  room  I  was  not  aware  that  the  pic- 
ture was  there,  but  the  moment  I  saw  "  Les  Foins  "  I  stopped 
short  before  it,  as  one  stops  before  a  window  that  is  sud- 
denly opened,  and  discloses  a  beautiful  landscape  to  the 
view. 

They  do  not  do  him  justice  ;  he  is  immeasurably  superior 
to  every  one  else.  There  is  no  one  to  be  compared  to  him. 

I  am  very,  very  ill  ;  and  I  have  applied  an  immense 
blister  to  my  chest.  After  that,  doubt  my  courage  and  my 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  AfARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  355 

desire  to  live,  if  you  can.  No  one  knows  of  it,  however, 
except  Rosalie  ;  I  walk  up  and  down  my  studio,  I  read,  I 
chat,  I  sing,  and  my  voice  is  almost  beautiful.  As  I  often 
spend  Sunday  without  working,  this  surprises  no  one. 

Tuesday,  September  18. — It  seems  that  the  notice  taken 
of  me  by  the  Russian  press  has  drawn  the  attention  of  many 
people  to  me — that  of  the  Grand  Duchess  Catherine  among 
others.  Mamma  is  intimately  acquainted  with  her  grand 
chamberlain  and  his  family,  and  the  question  of  appointing 
me  to  the  post  of  maid  of  honor  has  been  seriously  dis- 
cussed. 

I  must  first  be  presented  to  the  Grand  Duchess,  however. 
Everything  has  been  done  that  could  be  done  in  the  matter, 
but  mamma  was  wrong  to  let  things  take  their  course,  and 
return  here. 

And  then — my  belle-dme  demands  a  sister-soul.  I  shall 
never  have  a.  friend.  Claire  says  I  can  never  have  a  girl 
friend  because  I  have  none  of  the  little  secrets  and  love- 
affairs  that  other  girls  have. 

"  You  are  too  proper,"  she  says ;  "  you  have  nothing  to 
conceal." 

Monday,  October  i. — We  were  present  at  the  ceremonies 
which  took  place  to-day  on  the  removal  to  Russia  of  the 
remains  of  Tourgenieff,  our  great  writer,  who  died  a  fort- 
night ago.  Afterward  we  went  to  the  Salon.  I  could  not 
refrain  from  a  burst  of  enthusiasm  (inward  enthusiasm, 
however,  for  I  feared  they  might  think  me  in  love  with 
him),  as  I  looked  at  the  paintings  of  Bastien-Lepage. 

Meissonier  ?  Meissonier  is  nothing  but  a  prestidigitator  ! 
He  paints  pictures  with  figures  so  minute  that  one  would 
need  to  look  at  them  through  a  microscope,  and  that  cause 
one  so  much  surprise  that  the  feeling  might  almost  be  takm 
for  admiration.  But  as  soon  as  he  departs  from  this  minute 


35^  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [18^3. 

style,  when  his  heads  are  more  than  a  centimetre  long,  his 
manner  becomes  hard  and  commonplace.  But  no  one  dares 
to  say  this,  and  every  one  admires  him,  although  all  his  pic- 
tures for  the  Salon  are  merely  good  and  correct. 

But  is  this  art, — to  paint  people  in  costume  who  play  on 
the  harpsichord  or  ride  on  horseback  ?  For  after  all  many 
genre  painters  can  do  as  much  as  this. 

Those  of  his  paintings  that  I  have  seen  that  are  really 
admirable  are,  in  the  first  place,  the  "  Joueurs  de  boules  sur 
la  route  d'Antibes  "  ;  it  is  a  scene  copied  from  the  life, 
although  the  costumes  are  antique  ;  and  is  luminous  and 
transparent ;  next  his  father  and  himself,  on  horseback  ;  then 
the  "Graveur  a  Teau-forte  " ;  the  movement  and  expres- 
sion have  been  seized  and  depicted  with  truth.  This  man, 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  carried  away  by  them  seem- 
ingly, touches  and  interests  us,  and  the  details  are  wonder- 
ful. There  is  also  a  cavalier  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIII., 
looking  out  of  a  window,  of  the  same  size  ;  the  movement 
here  is  also  just  ;  the  action  is  human,  natural,  simple — it  is 
a  bit  of  real  life,  in  fact. 

Those  of  his  pictures  in  which  the  heads  are  as  much 
as  two  centimetres  long  are  merely  cartoons,  and  the 
larger  his  figures  are  the  worse  they  are. 

I  pay  my  tribute  to  his  genius  and  pass  on  ;  he  does  not 
touch  my  feelings.  But  look  at  the  portraits  of  Bastien- 
Lepage  !  Most  people  would  make  an  outcry  if  I  were  to 
say  that  they  are  much  better  than  those  of  Meissonier. 
And  yet  such  is  the  fact.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be 
compared  to  the  portraits  of  Bastien-Lepage.  Object  to 
his  other  paintings  if  you  will — you  do  not  understand 
them,  perhaps — but  his  portraits  !  Nothing  better  of  the 
kind  has  ever  been  done. 

Saturday,  October  6. — I  have  just  read,  at  one  sitting,  a 
novel  in  French  by  our  illustrious  Tonrgenieff,  so  as  to  be 


i833.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  357 

able  to  form  an  idea  of  the  impression  his  books  make  upon 
foreigners.  He  is  a  great  writer,  a  man  of  subtle  intellect, 
an  acute  reasoner,  a  poet,  a  Bastien-Lepage.  His  descrip- 
tive passages  are  beautiful,  and  he  interprets  the  most 
delicate  shades  of  feeling  in  words  as  Bastien-Lepage  in- 
terprets them  in  color. 

And  Millet — what  a  sublime  artist  !  Well,  he  is  as  poetic 
as  Millet.  I  use  this  foolish  phrase  for  the  benefit  of  those 
imbeciles  who  would  otherwise  be  unable  to  understand  me. 

Whatever  is  grand,  poetical,  beautiful,  subtle,  or  true  in 
music,  in  literature,  or  in  art  reminds  me  of  this  wonderful 
artist  and  poet.  He  chooses  subjects  that  are  considered 
vulgar  by  fashionable  people,  and  he  extracts  from  them 
the  most  exquisite  poetry. 

What  can  be  more  commonplace  than  a  little  girl  guard- 
ing a  cow  or  a  woman  working  in  the  fields  ?  "  But  these 
have  been  already  treated,"  you  will  say.  Yes,  but  noother 
artist  has  ever  treated  them  as  he  has  done.  He  did  well  to 
choose  them  ;  in  a  single  picture  he  has  given  us  a  romance 
of  three  hundred  pages.  But  there  are  perhaps,  not  more 
than  fifteen  of  us  who  understand  him. 

Tourgenieff,  also,  has  depicted  peasant-life — the  life  of 
the  poor  Russian  peasant  ;  and  with  what  truth,  what  sim- 
plicity, what  sincerity  !  And  how  moving  is  the  picture  he 
has  drawn,  how  poetic,  how  grand  ! 

Unfortunately  this  can  be  appreciated  only  in  Russia, 
and  it  is  chiefly  in  these  social  studies  that  he  excels. 

Monday,  October  22. — I  should  be  well  pleased  if  my 
malady  proved  to  be  an  imaginary  one. 

It  seems  that  at  one  time  it  was  fashionable  to  have  con- 
sumption, and  that  people  tried  to  make  it  appear,  and  even 
to  persuade  themselves,  that  they  had  it.  Ah,  if  it  might 
turn  out  that  this  disease  of  mine  were  an  imaginary  one  ! 
I  desire  to  live  in  any  case,  and  despite  of  everythiii-  I 


35&  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFf  [1883. 

have  neither  love-sorrows,  nor  sentimental  reasons,  nor 
any  other  cause,  to  make  me  wish  to  die.  I  desire  to 
achieve  fame,  and  to  enjoy  whatever  happiness  is  to  be  en- 
joyed on  this  earth. 

Monday,  November  5. — The  leaves  have  all  fallen,  and  I 
do  not  know  how  I  shall  be  able  to  finish  my  picture.  I 
have  no  luck.  Luck  !  How  formidable  a  thing  is  luck  ! 
What  a  mysterious  and  terrible  power  ! 

Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  finished,  but  finished  quickly,  quick- 
ly ! — in  a  fortnight.  And  then  to  astonish  Robert-Fleury 
and  Julian  by  showing  it  to  them. 

If  I  could  do  this,  it  would  give  me  new  life.  I  suffer 
because  I  have  done  nothing  of  any  consequence  this  sum- 
mer ;  I  experience  the  most  frightful  remorse.  I  should 
like  to  define  my  condition  with  more  exactness — I  am 
altogether  without  strength,  as  it  were,  and  at  the  same 
time  I  am  profoundly  calm.  I  fancy  that  one  who  has  just 
lost  a  great  deal  of  blood  might  feel  as  I  do  now. 

I  have  taken  my  resolution — I  shall  wait  until  May.  And 
why  should  this  state  of  things  change  in  May  ?  After  all, 
who  knows  ? 

This  has  made  me  think  of  whatever  virtues  or  talents  I 
may  possess,  and  I  find  a  source  of  secret  consolation  in 
these  thoughts.  It  has  make  me  take  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion, at  dinner,  with  my  family,  like  any  other  person — 
amiably,  and  with  a  calm  and  dignified  air  such  as  I  had  on 
the  day  I  first  wore  my  hair  turned  up. 

In  short,  I  experience  a  feeling  of  profound  tranquillity. 
I  shall  pursue  my  work  with  calmness  ;  it  seems  to  me  that 
henceforth  all  my  actions  must  be  tranquil,  and  that  I  shall 
regard  the  universe  with  gentle  condescension. 

I  am  calm  as  if  I  were,  or  perhaps  because  I  am,  strong ; 
and  patient,  as  if  I  were  certain  of  the  future. — And  who 
knows  ?  I  feel  myself  in  truth,  invested  with  a  new  dignity  ; 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  359 

I  have  confidence  in  myself ;  I  am  a  power.  Then— what  ? 
May  not  this  be  love  ?  No  ;  but  outside  that  feeling  I  see 
nothing  that  could  interest  me.  This  is  what  was  needed, 
mademoiselle,  devote  yourself  entirely  to  your  art. 

When  I  see  myself  .famous  in  imagination  it  is  as  if  I 
were  dazzled  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  as  if  I  had  come  in 
contact  with  an  electric  battery  ;  I  start  from  my  seat,  and 
begin  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

It  may  be  said  that  if  I  had  been  married  at  seventeen  I 
should  be  like  every  one  else.  This  is  a  mistake.  In  order 
that  I  should  marry  like  any  one  else  it  would  be  necessary 
for  me  to  be  some  one  else. 

Do  you  suppose  that  I  have  ever  loved  !  I  do  not  think 
so.  These  passing  fancies  look  like  love  ;  but  they  could 
not  have  been  love. 

I  still  continue  to  feel  this  excessive  weakness  ;  I  might 
compare  myself  to  an  instrument  of  which  the  cords  are 
relaxed.  What  is  the  cause  of  this  ?  Julian  says  that  I  re- 
mind him  of  an  autumn  landscape,  a  desolate  and  deserted 
walk  enveloped  in  the  fogs  of  winter.  Just  what  I  am,  my 
dear  monsieur. 

Monday,  November  12. — Dumont,  of  La  Libert^  is  com- 
ing to  see  us.  He  detests  the  style  of  painting  I  have 
chosen,  but  he  paid  me  a  great  many  compliments  at  the 
same  time  that  he  asked  me  in  astonishment  how  it  was 
that  I,  living  as  I  do,  in  the  midst  of  elegant  and  refined 
surroundings,  should  love  the  ugly.  He  thinks  my  little 
boys  ugly. 

"  Why  did  you  not  choose  pretty  ones  ?  "  he  said  ;  "they 
would  have  answered  the  same  purpose." 

I  chose  expressive  faces,  if  I  may  dare  to  say  so.  And 
then  one  does  not  see  such  miracles  of  beauty  among  the 
little  boys  who  run  about  the  streets ;  for  those  it  would  be 
necessary  to  go  to  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  paint  some  of 


3^0  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883 

the  poor  little  be-ribboned  babies  who  are  to  be  seen  there, 
guarded  by  their  nurses. 

Where,  then,  is  action  to  be  found  ?  Where  the  savage 
liberty  of  primitive  times  ?  Where  true  expression  ?  For 
even  the  children  of  the  better  classes  study  effect. 

And  then — in  short,  I  am  right. 

Thursday,  November  22. — The  Illustration  Universelle  (of 
Russia)  has  given  an  engraving  of  my  painting  ("  Jean  et 
Jacques  ")  on  its  first  page. 

This  is  the  most  important  of  the  illustrated  papers  of 
Russia,  and  I  am,  so  to  speak,  at  home  in  it. 

And  I  am  not  overjoyed  at  this  ?  Why  should  I  be  ?  It 
pleases  me,  but  1  am  not  overjoyed  on  account  of  it. 

And  why  not  ?  Because  this  is  not  enough  to  satisfy  my 
ambition.  If  I  had  received  a  mention  two  years  ago,  I 
should  have  fainted  from  emotion  ;  if  they  had  given  me  a 
medal  last  year,  I  should  have  shed  tears  of  joy  upon  the 
breast  of  Julian.  But  now — Alas  !  all  the  events  of  life 
follow  each  other  in  logical  order  ;  they  are  all  linked  to- 
gether, and  each  prepares  us  for  the  one  which  is  to  follow. 
If  I  receive  a  third-class  medal  next  year,  it  will  seem  noth- 
ing^more  than  natural  ;  if  they  give  me  nothing,  I  shall  be 
indignant. 

One  never  rejoices  greatly  at  any  event  except  when  it 
comes  unexpectedly — when  it  is  in  some  sort  a  surprise. 

Saturday,  December  i. — After  all,  may  I  not  have  been 
deceiving  myself  all  this  time  ?  Who  will  give  me  back  the 
most  beautiful  years  of  my  life — wasted,  perhaps,  in  vain  ! 

But  there  is  a  sufficient  answer  to  these  vulgar  doubts  of 
mine  in  the  fact  that  I  had  nothing  better  to  do  ;  besides, 
anywhere  and  everywhere,  leading  the  same  life  as  others  I 
should  have  had  too  much  to  suffer.  And  then  I  should 
not  have  attained  that  moral  development  which  confers 


1883.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSE1 1-.  361 

upon  me  a  superiority  so  embarrassing— to  myself.  Stend- 
hal had  come  in  contact  with  at  least  one  or  two  persons 
capable  of  understanding  him,  while  I,  unfortunately  for 
myself,  find  every  one  insipid  ;  and  even  those  whom  I  ex- 
pected to  find  intelligent,  I  find  stupid.  Is  this  because  I 
am  what  is  termed  a  misunderstood  being  ?  No  ;  but  I  feel 
that  I  have  reason  to  be  surprised  and  dissatisfied  when 
people  think  me  capable  of  things  which  reflect  upon  my 
dignity,  my  delicacy,  my  elegance,  even. 

You  see  I  want  some  one  who  should  understand  me 
completely,  to  whom  I  could  confide  everything,  and  in 
whose  word  I  should  see  my  own  thoughts  reflected. — Well, 
my  child,  this  would  be  love. 

That  may  be,  but  without  going  so  far — people  who 
would  be  able  to  form  an  intelligent  opinion  concerning 
one,  and  whom  one  might  talk  to — even  that  would  be  pleas- 
ant ;  and  I  know  no  such  person.  The  only  one  I  knew 
was  Julian,  and  he  is  growing  every  day  more  disagreeable  ; 
he  is  even  exasperating  when  he  begins  with  his  tiresome, 
teasing  insinuations,  especially  in  matters  relating  to  art. 
He  does  not  understand  that  I  am  not  blind,  and  that  I 
mean  to  succeed  ;  he  thinks  me  infatuated  with  myself. 

After  all,  though,  he  is  still  at  times  my  confidant.  As 
far  as  an  absolute  parity  of  sentiments  is  concerned,  that 
does  not  exist,  except  between  lovers !  It  is  love,  then, 
that  works  the  miracle.  But  may  it  not  be  rather  this  abso- 
lute parity  of  sentiments  that  gives  birth  to  iove? — The 
sister-soul. — As  for  me  I  find  this  image,  which  has  been  so 
much  abused,  a  very  just  one.  But  who  is  this  sister-soul  ? 
Some  one,  not  even  the  tip  of  whose  ear  can  one  catch 
sight  of. 

It  would  be  necessary  that  not  a  word,  not  a  look,  of  his 
should  be  at  variance  with  the  idea  I  have  formed  of  him. 
Not  that  I  demand  in  him  an  impossible  perfection,  or  that 
he  should  be  a  being  superior  to  humanity;  but  I  require 


362  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASUKTRTSEFF.          [1883. 

that  his  caprices  should  be  interesting  caprices  that  would 
not  lower  him  in  my  eyes;  that  he  should  be  in  conformity 
with  my  ideal — not  the  hackneyed  ideal  of  an  impossible 
demigod,  but  that  everything  in  him  should  please  me,  and 
that  I  should  not  unexpectedly  discover  in  him  some  stupid, 
dull,  weak,  foolish,  mean,  false,  or  mercenary  trait;  one 
such  blemish  only,  no  matter  how  small  it  might  be,  would 
be  sufficient  to  ruin  him  in  my  eyes. 

Sunday,  December  2. — In  short,  my  heart  is  absolutely 
empty,  empty,  empty.  But  I  must  indulge  in  these  dreams 
in  order  to  amuse  myself.  I  have  experienced  almost  all 
those  feelings  which  Stendhal  mentions,  however,  apropos 
of  true  love,  which  he  calls  passionate  love — those  innumer- 
able caprices  of  the  imagination ;  those  childish  follies  of 
which  he  speaks.  Thus  I  have  often  seen  the  most  hateful 
people  with  pleasure,  because  they  had  chanced  to  be  near 
the  beloved  object  on  that  particular  day. 

Besides,  I  think  that  no  one,  whether  man  or  woman, 
who  is  always  busy,  or  who  is  constantly  preoccupied  by  the 
thought  of  fame,  can  love  like  one  who  has  nothing  but 
love  to  think  of. 

Monday,  'December  3. — I  am  intelligent,  I  give  myself 
credit  for  wit,  for  penetration,  for  every  intellectual  quality 
in  fact,  and  I  am  unprejudiced.  Well,  having  these  condi- 
tions, why  should  I  not  be  able  to  form  a  clear  judgment  of 
myself? 

Have  I  really  any  talent  for,  or  shall  I  really  ever  be 
anything  in  art?  What  is  my  unbiassed  opinion  concerning 
myself  ? 

These  are  terrible  questions — because  I  think  little  of 
myself  compared  with  the  ideal  to  which  I  strive  to  attain — 
compared  with  others,  however — 

But  one  cannot  form  a  correct  judgment  concerning  one's- 


1383. ]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEI I'.  363 

self,  and  then — as  long  as  I  am  not  a  genius — and  I  have 
never  produced  anything  that  could  enable  any  one — even 
myself — to  form  a  definite  judgment  concerning  me. 

Monday,  December  10. — Hundreds  of  people  whose  names 
are  never  heard  of  accomplish  as  much  as  I  have  done, 
and  never  complain  that  they  have  no  outlet  for  their 
genius.  If  you  find  yourself  embarrassed  by  your  genius, 
it  is  because  you  have  none;  any  one  who  has  genius  will 
have  the  strength  to  support  it. 

The  word  genius  is  like  the  word  love-,  I  found  difficulty 
in  writing  it  for  the  first  time,  but,  when  I  had  once  written 
it,  I  made  use  of  it  at  all  times  and  on  all  occasions  after- 
wards. It  is  the  same  as  with  many  other  things  which 
at  first  appear  huge,  terrible,  or  unattainable — once  you 
become  familiar  with  them  you  abandon  yourself  to  them 
completely  so  as  to  make  up  for  all  your  former  hesitations 
and  fears.  This  spirituelle  observation  does  not  appear  to 
me  to  be  very  lucid,  but  I  must  expend  my  energy.  I 
worked  until  seven,  but  as  there  is  still  some  of  it  remain- 
ing, I  must  let  it  flow  away  from  the  point  of  my  pen. 

I  am  growing  thin.     Well — God  be  merciful  to  me! 

Sunday,  December  23. — True  artists  can  never  be  happy ; 
they  are  conscious,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  majority  of 
people  do  not  understand  them ;  they  know  they  are  work- 
ing for  a  hundred  people  or  so,  and  that  all  the  others  follow 
their  own  bad  taste,  or  the  opinions  of  Figaro. 

The  ignorance  that  prevails  among  all  classes  respecting 
everything  that  pertains  to  art  is  frightful. 

Those  who  speak  understandingly  of  art,  for  the  most  part 
repeat  the  opinions  which  they  have  heard  or  read  of  those 
who  are  considered  competent  judges  in  the  matter. 

But  I  think  there  are  days  when  one  feels  those  things 
more  acutely — days  when  nonsensical  talk  is  especially  in- 


364  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1883. 

supportable;  when  foolish  observations  cause  one  actual  suf- 
fering; and  to  hear  people  exchanging  for  hours  silly  re- 
marks that  have  not  even  the  merit  of  sprightliness  or  the 
varnish  of  fashion  to  recommend  them,  is  a  positive 
affliction. 

And  observe  that  I  am  not  one  of  those  superior  beings 
who  shed  tears  when  they  are  compelled  to  listen  to  the 
hackneyed  phrases  of  the  drawing-room — its  affectations, 
its  stereotyped  compliments,  its  remarks  about  the  weather 
or  the'  Italian  opera.  I  am  not  foolish  enough  to  require 
that  all  conversation  should  be  interesting,  and  to  hear  the 
commonplace  talk  of  society,  lively,  it  is  true,  at  times,  but 
more  often  dull,  does  not  disturb  my  tranquillity  in  the  least. 
I  can  submit  to  it,  occasionally,  even,  with  pleasure;  what  I 
have  reference  to  is  real  folly,  real  stupidity,  a  lack  of — in 
short,  the  commonplace  conversation  of  people  who  are  not 
only  worldly  but  stupid. 

To  listen  to  this  is  like  being  burned  at  a  slow  fire. 

Monday,  December  31. — The  Marechale  and  Claire  dined 
yesterday  with  the  Princess  Mathilde.  and  Claire  tells  me 
that  Lefebvre  said  to  her  of  me  that  I  had  undoubted  talent, 
that  I  was  a  very  uncommon  person,  that  I  went  a  great  deal 
into  society,  and  that,  in  addition  to  this,  I  was  watched 
over  and  directed  by  a  celebrated  painter  (this  with  a  mean- 
ing look.) 

Claire  (looking  at  him  fixedly):  "What  celebrated 
painter?  Julian?  Lefebvre?" 

"No,  Bastien-Lepage." 

Claire:  "Oh,  you  are  entirely  mistaken,  monsieur;  she 
works  all  the  time,  and  goes  out  very  little.  As  to  Bastien- 
Lepage.  she  sees  him  nowhere  except  in  her  mother's  draw- 
ing-room; he  never  goes  up  to  her  studio." 

Claire  is  a  love  of  a  girl,  and  she  said  nothing  but  what 
is  true,  for  God  is  my  witness  that  this  Jules  gives  me  no 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEF1-.  365 

assistance    whatever.     Lefebvre,  however,  looked  as  if  he 
thought  he  did. 

It  is  two  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  new  year  has  begun, 
and  at  midnight,  at  the  theater,  with  my  watch  in  my  hand, 
I  made  a  wish  in  one  single  word — a  word  that  is  grand, 
sonorous,  beautiful,  intoxicating,  whether  it  be  written  or 
spoken — Fame ! 


1884. 

My  Aunt  Helene,  my  father's  sister,  died  a  week  ago. 
Paul  telegraphed  the  news  to  us. 

We  received  another  telegraphic  dispatch  to-day  :  my 
Uucle  Alexander  has  just  died  of  apoplexy;  the  news  was 
a  great  shock  to  us ;  he  was  devoted  to  his  family,  and 
loved  his  wife  to  distraction.  As  he  had  never  read  Balzac, 
nor  indeed  any  other  novelist,  perhaps,  he  knew  but  little 
about  the  romantic  phrases  employed  by  lovers  to  express 
their  affection  ;  certain  words  of  his,  however,  I  remember, 
to  recall  which  now  makes  me  feel  all  the  greater  sorrow 
for  his  death.  On  one  occasion  someone  tried  to  make  him 
believe  that  his  wife  was  receiving  the  attentions  of  a  neigh- 
bor, and  I  remember  to  have  heard  him  say:  "  Well,  sup- 
pose this  infamous  thing  they  tell  me  were  true  !  Is  not 
my  wife,  whom  I  have  lived  with  for  fifteen  years,  flesh  of 
my  flesh,  blood  of  my  blood,  soul  of  my  soul  ?  Are  we  not 
one  ?  If  I  had  committed  a  fault,  would  I  not  forgive  my- 
self for  it?  Why  then  should  I  not  forgive  my  wife ?  Not 
to  do  so  would  be  like  plucking  out  one  of  my  eyes,  or 
cutting  off  an  arm." 

Frid.iy,  Jannarv  4. — It  is  true,  then  ;  I  have  consumption, 
and  the  disease  is  far  advanced. 

I  feel  very  ill  ;  I  have  said  nothing  about  it,  but  I  have 
fever  every  night. 


366  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

Saturday,  January  5. — The  opening  of  the  Manet  Exhi- 
bition at  the  School  of  Fine  Arts  takes  place  to-day. 

I  am  going  there. 

It  is  not  quite  a  year  since  Manet  died.  I  do  not  know 
a  great  deal  about  him.  The  collection,  take  it  all  in  all,  is 
a  remarkable  one. 

It  is  at  once  childish,  extravagant,  and  grand. 

There  are  some  absurd  things  among  the  pictures,  but 
there  are  also  some  that  are  magnificent.  A  little  more  and 
Manet  would  have  been  a  great  painter.  The  pictures  are, 
in  general,  repulsive  ;  some  of  them  are  altogether  out  of 
drawing  ;  but  all  are  life-like.  There  are  some  splendid 
sketches  among  them  ;  and  even  in  the  most  faulty  of  the 
pictures  there  is  a  something  that  rivets  the  attention,  and 
almost  calls  forth  admiration — they  reveal  so  evident  a  self- 
confidence  on  the  part  of  the  artist,  so  profound  a  belief  in 
his  own  powers,  joined  to  an  ignorance  no  less  profound. 
They  are  such  pictures  as  a  great  genius  might  have  pro- 
duced in  his  childhood.  And  then  there  are  things  copied 
almost  exactly  from  Titian  (the  sketch  of  the  female  figure 
and  the  negro,  for  instance),  Velasquez,  Courbet,  and  Goya. 
But  then  all  these  painters  stole  from  each  other.  And  has 
not  Moliere  taken  whole  pages  from  other  authors  ? 

Monday,  January  14. — I  feel  as  if  I  myself  had  been  at 
Damvillers,  Emile  Bastien  has  told  us  so  much  about  it — 
about  the  picture,  his  brother's  manner  of  life,  etc.  Accord- 
ing to  him,  if  the  artist  has  not  invited  us  to  see  the  studies 
painted  by  him  at  Concarneau,  it  is  because  he  never  invites 
any  one  to  see  his  paintings.  He  even  thinks  it  would  be  a 
mark  of  conceit  on  his  part  to  ask  any  one  to  go  look  at  a 
few  unimportant  studies  made  while  he  was  resting  in  the 
country ;  and  finally,  he  says  he  thought  from  the  friendli- 
ness we  showed  him  that  he  might  be  dispensed  from  using 
ceremony  ;  that  he  would  have  been  delighted  to  see  us  if 


1884.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSRFP.  367 

we  had  gone  there,  etc.  He  says,  that,  even  in  the  case  of 
his  more  important  paintings,  he  never  invites  anyone  to  see 
them  ;  he  merely  requests  his  brother  to  let  his  intimate 
friends  know  when  he  has  finished  one. 

But  here  is  something  more  serious :  when  his  brother 
spoke  to  him  of  my  picture  he  said  :  "  Why  did  you  not 
tell  me  of  it  when  I  was  in  Paris  ?  I  would  have  gone  to 
see  it." 

"I  told  him  nothing  about  it  in  Paris,"  his  brother  added, 
"because  if  he  had  gone  to  look  at  it,  you  would  have 
hidden  everything  away,  according  to  your  custom  ;  he 
has  never  seen  any  of  your  pictures  except  those  you 
exhibited  at  the  Salon.  Do  you  know  that  he  will  never 
care  to  look  at  your  pictures  if  you  continue  to  act  in  this 
way  ? " 

"  He  will,  if  I  wish  it — if  I  ask  him  to  give  me  his  advice." 
"  He  will  be  always  delighted  to  give  you  his  advice," 
he  said. 

"  But  unfortunately  I  am  not  a  pupil  of  his." 
"  And  why  are  you  not  ?  He  would  ask  for  nothing 
better  ;  he  would  feel  very  much  flattered  if  you  consulted 
him,  and  he  would  give  you  judicious  advice — disinterested 
advice  ;  he  has  a  correct  judgment,  and  is  not  prejudiced 
in  favor  of  any  school,  and  he  would  be  delighted  to  have 
so  interesting  a  pupil.  I  assure  you  it  would  please  and 
flatter  him  very  much." 

Wednesday,  January  16. — The  architect  has  told  me  that 
there  is  a  painting  of  the  "Shepherds  at  Bethlehem  "among 
his  brother's  pictures.  For  the  last  two  days  my  head  has 
been  filled  with  this  subject ;  so  strong  is  the  impression  it 
has  produced  in  my  mind  that  I  can  compare  it  to  nothing 
else  than  the  feeling  entertained  by  the  shepherds  them- 
selves— a  blending  of  holy  enthusiasm  and  profound  adora- 
tion. 


368  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIR TSE.FF.          [1884. 

Can  you  not  already  imagine  with  what  mystery,  what 
tenderness,  what  sublime  simplicity,  he  will  invest  this  sub- 
ject ?  One  who  is  familiar  with  his  paintings  can  do  so,  in 
some  measure,  by  observing  the  mysterious  and  fantastic 
resemblance  that  exists  between  the  "  Jeanne  d'Arc  "  and  the 
"Soir  au  Village" — the  effect  of  both  which  pictures  will  be 
in  some  sort  reproduced  in  the  "  Shepherds."  But  perhaps 
you  think  it  absurd  of  me  to  grow  enthusiastic  about  a 
painting  that  I  have  never  seen — that  is  not  even  yet  in 
existence  ?  Well,  let  us  suppose  that  in  the  eyes  of  the 
majority  of  people  I  appear  ridiculous  by  doing  so,  there 
will  always  be  a  few  dreamers  who  will  take  my  part ;  and, 
if  need  were,  I  could  do  without  even  those. 

"Jeanne  d'Arc"  has  never  been  appreciated  in  France  ;  in 
America  it  was  enthusiastically  admired.  The  "Jeanne 
d'Arc,"  both  in  composition  and  in  sentiment,  is  a  master- 
piece. 

The  reception  it  met  with  in  Paris  was  a  disgrace  to  the 
French  people. 

Are  only  the  "  Phaedras  "  and  the  "  Auroras,"  then,  to  meet 
with  success  ?  Neither  Millet,  Rousseau,  nor  Corot  were 
admired  by  the  public  until  after  they  had  become  famous. 

What  is  most  to  be  deplored,  in  our  day,  is  the  hypocrisy 
of  the  enlightened  few  who  affect  to  see  nothing  either 
serious  or  elevated  in  modern  art,  and  who  exalt  to  the 
skies  those  painters  who  follow  the  traditions  of  the  old 
masters.  Is  it  necessary  to  point  out  and  insist  upon  the 
fallacies  involved  in  these  views  of  art  ?  What  then  is 
high  art  if  it  be  not  the  art  which,  while  it  renders  the 
flesh,  the  dress,  and  the  landscapes  with  such  perfection 
that  we  want  to  touch  them,  so  to  speak,  to  see  if  they  be 
real,  endows  them  at  the  same  time  with  soul,  with  spirit, 
and  with  life.  The  "Jeanne  d'Arc"  they  say  is  not 
high  art  because  the  artist  depicts  his  subject,  not  clad  in 
armor  and  with  the  white  and  delicate  hands  of  a 


i8S4.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  369 

lady,  but  as  a  peasant  girl  and  in  the  midst  of  homely 
surroundings. 

Stupid  or  dishonest  critics  praise  the  "  Amour  au  Village/' 
which  is  inferior  to  the  "Jeanne  d'Arc,"  with  the  purpose 
of  making  it  appear  that  the  artist  excels  only  in  this  style, 
indignant  that  a  painter  who  has  made  peasant  life  a  study 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to  paint  anything  else— to  paint 
a  peasant  famous  in  history,  for  instance,  like  the  "  Jeanne 
d'Arc." 

Pharisees  and  hypocrites  ! 

For,  after  all,  any  artist  can  paint  flesh,  but  who  can 
portray  the  soul  within,  the  divine  spark,  as  he  has  done? 
No  one.  In  the  eyes  of  his  characters  I  can  read  their 
lives ;  I  almost  think  I  know  them.  I  have  tried  to  feel 
this  in  looking  at  other  paintings,  but  without  success. 

Who  would  prefer  as  a  subject  for  a  painting  the  execu- 
tion of  a  Lady  Jane  Grey  or  a  Baj  izet  to  some  little  girl 
who  looks  at  you  with  clear  and  animated  glance  as  you 
pass  her  by  in  the  street  ? 

This  great  artist  possesses  a  quality  which  is  to  be  met 
with  only  in  the  religious  paintings  of  the  Italians  at  a  time 
when  artists  were  also  believers. 

Has  it  never  happened  to  you,  on  finding  yourself  alone 
of  an  evening  in  the  country,  under  a  clear  and  cloudless 
sky,  to  feel  your  being  pervaded  by  a  mysterious  longing — 
a  vague  aspiration  toward  the  Infinite  ;  to  feel  yourself,  as 
it  were,  on  the  threshold  of  some  great  event,  some  super- 
natural  occurrence  ?  Were  you  never,  in  your  dreams, 
transported  into  unknown  regions  ? 

If  not  you  would  seek  in  vain  to  understand  Bastien- 
Lepage,  and  I  advise  you  to  buy  an  "  Aurora"  by  Bouguereau 
or  a  historical  picture  by  Cabanel. 

And  all  this  is  in  order  to  say  that  I  worship  the  genius 
of  Bastien-Lepage  ? 

Yes. 


370  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

Sunday,  January  20. — It  is  a  sad  confession  to  make,  but 
I  have  no  woman  friend  :  there  is  no  woman  who  loves  me 
or  whom  I  love. 

I  am  well  aware  that  if  I  have  no  such  friend,  it  is 
because  I  allow  it  to  be  seen,  without  intending  it,  from 
what  a  height  "  I  survey  the  crowd." 

No  one  likes  to  be  humiliated.  I  might  console  myself  by 
the  reflection  that  truly  great  natures  are  never  loved. 
Such  persons  are  surrounded  by  worshipers  who  bask  in 
the  sunshine  of  their  fame,  but  who,  at  heart,  hate  them  and 
disparage  them  when  the  opportunity  to  do  so  presents 
itself.  They  are  talking  just  now  of  erecting  a  statue  to 
Balzac,  and  the  newspapers  are  filled  with  recollections  of 
the  great  man  contributed  by  his  friends.  Such  friends  are 
a  disgrace  to  humanity. 

They  vie  with  one  another  to  see  which  will  be  foremost 
in  dragging  before  the  public  view  his  most  secret  faults 
and  foibles.  I  would  rather  have  such  people  as  those  for 
my  enemies  than  for  my  friends.  At  least  their  slanders 
would  in  that  case  be  less  likely  to  be  believed. 

Saturday,  February  23. — At  about  one  o'clock  the  Mare- 
chale  and  Claire  came  to  meet  Madeleine  Lemaire,  who 
wished  to  see  my  picture.  This  lady,  besides  being  a  wo- 
man of  society,  is  also  a  celebrated  artist  in  water-colors, 
and  obtains  very  good  prices  for  her  pictures.  Of  course 
she  said  only  flattering  things  of  my  picture. 

I  think  I  must  be  going  to  die  soon,  for  my  whole  life, 
with  all  its  stupid  details,  rises  before  me — details  that  it 
makes  me  shed  tears  of  rage  to  remember.  It  has  never 
been  my  habit  to  go  to  balls,  like  other  girls.  I  would  go 
to  one  occasionally — three  or  four  times  a  year  perhaps. 
For  the  last  two  years,  when  I  no  longer  cared  to  do  so,  I 
might  have  gone  as  often  as  I  chose. 

And  is  it  I,  you  ask,  whose  ambition  it  is  to  become  a 


i8S4.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSFJ1-.  371 

great  artist,  who  regret  not  having  been  allowed  to  go  to 
balls  more  often  ?  Indeed,  yes.  And  what  are  my  regrets 
for  now  ?  Not  for  balls,  but  there  are  other  reunions  where 
one  may  meet  thinkers,  authors,  artists,  singers,  men  of  sci- 
ence—all  those  who  constitute  the  world  of  intellect,  in 
short.  The  most  rational,  the  most  philosophical  person  in 
the  world  need  not  be  ashamed  of  desiring  to  meet  once  a 
week,  or  once  a  fortnight,  persons  who  are  the  flower  of 
Parisian  intellect.  I  have  always  been  unfortunate  in  every- 
thing !  Through  my  own  merits  I  have  succeeded  in  be- 
coming acquainted  with  the  best  people  in  Paris,  and  only 
to  be  humiliated. 

I  am  too  unhappy  not  to  believe  in  a  God  who  could  take 
pity  upon  me  if  he  would  ;  but  if  there  were  indeed  a  God, 
would  He  allow  such  injustice  to  exist  ?  What  have  I  ever 
done  that  I  should  be  as  unhappy  as  I  am  ? 

It  is  not  in  the  God  of  the  Bible  that  I  can  believe,  how- 
ever. The  Bible  is  a  narrative  of  primitive  times,  in  which 
all  that  relates  to  God  is  treated  from  the  point  of  view  of 
a  child.  The  only  God  I  can  believe  in  is  the  God  of  phil- 
osophy— an  abstract  being — the  Great  Mystery — earth, 
heaven,  the  universe,  Pan. 

But  this  is  a  God  who  can  in  no  way  help  us  ;  this  is  a 
God  on  whom  our  thoughts  may  dwell  in  adoration  as  we 
look  up  to  the  stars  at  night,  seeking  to  penetrate  to  the 
heart  of  the  spiritual  universe,  A  la  Renan.  But  a  God  who 
sees  everything  that  takes  place,  who  interests  Himself  in 
our  affairs,  to  whom  we  may  pray  for  what  we  desire — I 
should  indeed,  like  to  believe  in  such  a  God,  but  if  Ik- 
existed,  would  He  suffer  things  to  be  as  they  are  ? 

Tuesday,  March  n.— It  is  raining.  But  it  is  not  that 
alone  that  depresses  me  ;  I  am  sick — Heaven  has  over- 
whelmed me  with  misfortunes. 


37 2  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

But  I  am  still  at  an  age  when  one  may  find  a  certain 
ecstasy  in  everything,  even  in  the  thought  of  death. 

I  fancy  there  is  no  one  who  takes  so  intense  a  delight  in 
all  things  as  I  do — art,  music,  painting,  books,  society,  diess, 
luxury,  gayety,  solitude  ;  tears  and  laughter,  sadness  and 
rejoicing  ;  love,  cold,  heat ;  the  solemn  plains  of  Russia 
and  the  mountains  that  surround  Naples  ;  the  snows  of 
winter,  the  rains  of  autumn,  spring  with  its  intoxicating 
joys,  the  calm  days  and  the  glorious  starlit  nights  of  sum- 
mer— I  love  them  and  delight  in  them  all.  Everything  in 
nature  presents  itself  to  me  under  an  aspect  either  interest- 
ing or  sublime  ;  I  long  to  see  everything,  to  grasp  every- 
thing, to  embrace  everything,  to  enter  into  the  heart  of 
everything,  and  to  die — since  die  I  must,  whether  in  one 
year  or  in  thirty  years,  I  care  not  which — to  die,  exhaling 
my  being  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy  at  solving  this  last  mystery  of 
all,  the  end  of  all  things,  or  the  beginning  of  things  divine. 

And  this  sentiment  of  universal  love  is  not  the  result  of 
the  fever  that  accompanies  my  malady.  I  have  always  felt 
it  as  strongly  as  I  feel  it  now.  Just  ten  years  ago — in 
1874,  as  I  remember,  after  enumerating  the  pleasures  of 
the  different  seasons — I  wrote  thus  : 

"  In  vain  would  I  seek  to  choose  ;  all  seasons  of  the 
year,  all  periods  of  life,  are  equally  beautiful," 

The  good,  Robert-Fleury  dines  with  us  this  evening  ;  he 
says  that  my  picture  of  the  little  gamins  is  greatly  im- 
proved— that  it  is  good,  in  fact,  and  that  it  will  be  accepted 
at  the  Salon. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  it  is  called  "  A  Meeting." 

Wednesday,  March  12. — The  portrait  of  Dina  will  not  be 
finished  in  time,  so  that  I  shall  send  on  the  "  Meeting." 

There  was  a  friendly  gathering  at  Mme.  Hochon's  this 
evening.  Among  those  present,  besides  ourselves,  were  the 
Duchess  d'Uzes  ;  the  Countess  Cornet,  and  the  Marechale  ; 


I884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  373 

and  a  number  of  artists— Cabanel,  Jalabert,  Siebert,  G. 
Ferrier,  Boulanger,  etc.  There  was  music,  and  Salvayre 
played  and  sang  some  airs  from  his  "  Henri  III."  All  these 
people,  not  excepting  Cabanel,  were  very  friendly  to  me. 

Saturday,  March  15.-^- Abbema  came  to  see  my  picture 
this  morning. 

I  thought  the  i5th  would  never  come.  The  weather  is 
glorious,  and  on  Monday  or  Tuesday  I  am  going  into  the 
country  to  work.  I  will  no  longer  waste  my  admiration  on 
Bastien-Lepage.  Indeed  I  know  but  little  of  him,  his  dis- 
position is  so — reserved  ;  besides,  it  is  better  to  spend  one's 
energy  on  one's  work  than  in  worshiping  at  any  one's 
shrine. 

Sunday,  March  16. — The  pictures  have  been  sent  away. 

I  came  home  at  about  half-past  six  so  exhausted  with 
fatigue  that  the  sensation  was  delicious.  Perhaps  you  may 
not  believe  it,  but  for  me  every  overpowering  sensation, 
even  the  sensation  of  pain,  is  a  joy. 

I  remember  once  when  I  had  hurt  my  finger,  some  years 
ago,  that  for  half  an  hour  the  pain  was  so  acute  that  I  took 
pleasure  in  it. 

And  so  it  was  with  the  lassitude  I  felt  this  evening,  lying 
in  the  bath,  and  afterward  in  bed,  my  limbs  powerless,  my 
head  full  of  vague  and  confused  ideas.  I  fell  asleep  repeat- 
ing words  as  disconnected  as  the  thoughts  that  passrd 
through  my  head — Cabanel,  varnishing-day,  the  Marechal, 
Breslau,  art,  Algeria,  the  line,  Wolff. 

Wednesday,  March  19. — I  have  discovered  an  orchard 
for  the  scene  of  my  picture,  at  Sevres ;  I  returned  home 
very  much  fatigued.  Some  friends  dined  with  us  in  the 
evening. 

Yesterday  the  election  of  members  to  the  club  of  Russian 
artists  took  place.  I  was  unanimously  elected. 


374  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

Claire  saw  an  acquaintance  to-day  who  told  her  he  had 
visited  Bastien-Lepage  not  long  ago,  and  that  he  had  found 
him  very  ill  ;  he  met  Bastien's  physician  on  the  following 
day,  who  said  to  him  :  "  The  man  is  very  ill,  but  I  do  not 
think  his  disease  is  rheumatism  ;  the  trouble  is  here,"  and 
he  tapped  himself  on  the  stomach.  So,  then,  he  is  really 
ill  !  He  went  to  Blidah  three  or  four  days  "go,  accom- 
panied by  his  mother. 

Saturday,  March  22. — I  have  not  yet  begun  work  at 
Sevres,  but  all  my  preparations  are  made. 

Julian  writes  :  "  Your  picture  has  been  accepted  and 
will  receive  a  No.  3  at  the  very  least." 

What  does  this  at  the  very  least  mean  ? 

God  be  thanked  !  I  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  as  to 
my  pictures  being  accepted  ! 

Monday,  March  24. — For  the  past  few  days  we  have  lived 
in  an  atmosphere  of  discord  ;  and  this  has  kept  me  apart 
from  the  others  and  given  me  an  opportunity  to  look  into 
the  depths  of  my  inner  self.  No,  everything  is  too  sad  to 
make  it  worth  while  to  complain  of  any  one  thing  in  par- 
ticular. I  am  overwhelmed  by  it  all. 

I  have  just  re-read  a  book  which  I  read  some  years  ago 
but  did  n4»t  then  like.  I  now  admire  it  greatly.  The 
style  of  the  book,  its  execution,  so  to  say,  is  perfect.  But  the 
question  is  not  one  of  style  alone. — The  clouds  that  darken 
my  mental  horizon  make  me  see  the  realities  of  life  all  the 
more  clearly — realities  so  hard,  so  bitter  that  I  could  not 
keep  from  tears  if  I  were  to  write  them  down.  Bat  I  cannot 
even  write  them  down.  Where  would  be  the  use  of  doing 
so  ?  What  is  the  use  of  anything  ?  I  have  spent  six  years 
working  ten  hours  a  day  to  gain  what  ?  The  knowledge 
of  all  I  have  yet  to  learn  in  my  art — and  a  fatal  disease.  I 
went  to  see  my  doctor  this  morning,  and  I  talked  with  so 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK'IRTSEFF.  375 

much  animation  that  he  said  to  me  :  "  I  see  you  have  not 
yet  lost  your  gayety." 

If  I  still  wish  to  cherish  the  hope  that  fame  is  to  recom- 
pense me  for  all  my  sufferings,  I  must  live,  and  in  order  to 
live  I  must  take  care  of  my  health. 

Here  are  dreams  side  by  side  with  the  frightful  reality. 

One  never  believes  in  any  coming  trouble  until  it  comes. 
I  remember  once  when  I  was  very  young  I  was  traveling  for 
the  first  time  in  a  railway  coach — for  the  first  time  I  came  in 
contact  with  strangers.  I  had  just  taken  my  seat  and  filled 
the  two  seats  next  to  mine  with  all  sorts  of  articles,  when 
two  passengers  entered  the  coach.  "  These  seats  are 
taken,"  I  said  coolly.  "  Very  well,"  answered  the  gentle- 
man I  addressed,  "  I  will  speak  to  the  conductor." 

I  thought  this  was  an  unmeaning  threat — as  if  we  had 
been  en  famille  ;  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe 
the  feeling  of  amazement  that  came  over  me  when  the 
conductor  came  and  removed  my  things  from  the  seat, 
which  the  passenger  took  immediately.  This  was  my  first 
reality. 

For  a  long  time  now  I  have  been  saying  to  myself  that  I 
was  going  to  be  ill,  without  really  believing  it. — But  enough 
of  this,  I  should  not  have  had  the  opportunity  to  give  you 
all  these  insignificant  details," if  it  were  not  that  I  have  been 
waiting  for  my  model,  and  I  might  as  well  spend  the  time 
grumbling  as  doing  nothing. 

There  is  a  March  wind  blowing,  and  the  sky  is  gray  and 
lowering. 

I  began  my  picture — a  rather  large  one — in  the  old 
orchard  at  Sevres  yesterday.  It  is  a  young  girl  seated 
under  an  apple-tree  in  blossom,  that  stands,  with  other 
fruit-trees  in  blossom  also,  in  a  grassy  field  sown  with 
violets  and  little  yellow  flowers,  like  stars.  The  girl  sits 
with  half-closed  eyes,  in  a  revery.  She  leans  her  head  in 


376  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1884. 

the  palm  of  her  left  hand,  while  her  elbow  rests  upon  her 
knee. 

The  treatment  is  to  be  simple,  and  the  spectator  must  be 
made  to  share  in  the  intoxication  produced  in  the  girl  by 
the  breath  of  Spring.  The  sunlight  plays  among  the 
branches  of  the  trees. 

The  picture  is  to  be  about  five  feet  in  width,  and  a  little 
more  in  height. 

So,  then,  my  picture  has  only  received  a  number  3  ;  and 
it  will  not  be  even  hung  upon  the  line — not  even  that ! 

This  has  caused  me  a  feeling  of  discouragement,  hope- 
less and  profound.  No  one  is  to  blame,  however,  if  I  am 
not  gifted  with  genius.  And  this  feeling  of  discourage- 
ment shows  me  that  if  I  ceased  to  have  faith  in  my  genius 
I  could  no  longer  live.  Yes,  if  the  hope  of  success  should 
again  fail  me,  as  it  did  this  evening,  then,  indeed,  there 
would  be  nothing  left  me  but  to  die. 

Thursday. — My  mind  has  been  greatly  preoccupied 
about  my  work.  Why  have  I  not  yet  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing anything  in  painting  equal  to  my  pastel  of  three 
years  ago  ? 

Monday,  March  31. — I  have  done  very  little  to-day.  I 
fear  that  my  picture  will  be  badly  hung  and  that  I  shall 
receive  no  medal. 

I  remained  in  a  hot  bath  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  this 
brought  on  a  slight  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs. 

This  was  very  foolish  on  my  part,  you  will  say,  very 
likely  ;  but  I  am  no  longer  prudent  about  my  health  ;  I  am 
discouraged,  and  almost  distracted,  from  having  so  many 
things  to  struggle  against. 

Well,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said — nothing  to  be  done. 
If  this  state  of  things  continues,  I  may  live  for  a  year  or  so, 


i884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSKFF.  377 

while  if  my  mind  were  at  rest  I  might  live  for  twenty  years 
longer. 

Yes,  this  3  is  hard  to  swallow.  Zilhardt  and  Breslau  have 
both  received  a  number  3.  And  why  then  did  I  not  re- 
ceive a  number  2  ?  There  are  forty  members  in  the  com- 
mittee, and  it  seems  that  I  received  so  many  votes  for  a 
number  2  that  every  one  thought  I  should  get  it.  Sup- 
pose I  had  fifteen  votes  in  my  favor,  and  twenty-five  against 
me  ;  the  committee  is  composed  of  fifteen  or  twenty  men  of 
note,  and  twenty  wretchedly  poor  artists  who  have  obtained 
the  positions  they  occupy  through  intrigue.  This  is  well 
known  ;  but  even  so  it  is  bad  enough  ;  the  blow  is  a  crush- 
ing one.  It  has  not  blinded  me  to  the  truth  of  the  matter, 
however,  and  I  can  see  myself  a$  I  am.  I  begin  to  think 
that  if  my  picture  had  been  really  good — 

Ah,  never,  never,  never,  have  I  touched  the  lowest  depths 
of  despair  as  I  have  done  to-day.  So  long  as  there  is  a 
lower  depth  to  be  reached  there  is  still  room  for  hope,  but 
when  one  has  set  foot,  as  I  have  done,  on  the  black  and 
slimy  bottom  of  the  gulf  itself  ;  when  one  says  to  one's-self 
as  I  have  done,  "  It  is  neither  circumstances,  nor  surround- 
ings, nor  the  world,  that  is  to  blame,  it  is  my  own  want  of 
genius,"  then  there  is  nothing  further  to  be  hoped  for; 
then  there  is  no  higher  power,  human  or  divine,  to  appeal 
to.  I  can  no  longer  go  on  working.  All  is  over. 

Here,  then,  is  an  overpowering  sensation.  Well,  accord- 
ing to  my  theories  I  ought  to  find  enjoyment  in  it.  I  am 
caught  in  my  own  trap  ! 

Never  mind.  I  will  take  some  bromide  ;  that  will  make 
me  sleep.  And  then,  God  is  good,  and  every  great  sorrow 
brings  along  with  it  some  consolation. 

And  to  think  that  I  cannot  even  tell  my  griefs  to  anyone  ; 
that  I  cannot  even  have  the  consolation  of  talking  them 
over  with  any  one — no,  there  is  no  one,  no  one  ! 

Happy   are   the  simple-hearted  ;    happy   are   they   who 


378  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

believe  in  a  God  on  whom  they  can  call  for  consolation. — 
What  should  I  call  on  God  to  console  me  for  ?  Because  I 
am  not  gifted  with  genius. 

You  see  this  is  the  very  bottom  of  the  gulf ;  I  ought  to 
find  enjoyment  in  it. 

That  might  be  the  case  if  there  were  spectators  to  my 
misery. 

Those  who  become  famous  have  their  friends  to  tell  their 
sorrows  to  the  world — for  they  have  had  friends  to  whom 
they  could  confide  their  sorrows.  I  have  none.  Even  if 
I  should  utter  my  complaints  to  any  one,  if  I  should  say, 
"  No,  I  will  never  paint  again  !  "  what  then  ?  No  one  is  the 
loser  by  it  if  I  do  not  happen  to  be  gifted  with  genius. 

But  of  all  the  sorrows  thflt  I  hide  within  my  heart  because 
there  is  none  to  whom  I  can  turn  for  sympathy,  the  deep- 
est, the  most  humiliating  is  this  :  to  feel,  to  know,  that  I 
am  nothing  ! 

If  this  were  to  continue  I  could  not  live. 

Wednesday,  April  2. — I  went  to-day  to  Petit's  (an  exhi- 
bition of  paintings  in  the  Rue  de  Seze)  ;  I  stayed  for  an 
hour  admiring  the  incomparable  paintings  of  Bastien-Le- 
page  and  of  Cazin. 

Then  I  went  to  Robert-Fleury's  and  asked  him  with  an 
unconcerned  air,  "  Well,  how  did  things  go  at  the  com- 
mittee ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  he  answered  ;  "when  your  picture  was 
inspected  some  of  the  members  said — not  one  or  two  of 
them,  but  several — '  Stay,  that  is  good  ;  it  deserves  a  num- 
ber 2.'  " 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  is  it  possible?  " 

"Yes,  and  do  not  think  I  say  this  merely  to  please  you  ; 
it  was  so.  Then  the  votes  were  taken,  and  if  the  president 
had  been  in  his  right  mind  that  day,  you  would  have  had  3. 
number  2," 


iS34.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASUKIKTSE1-F.  379 

"  But  what  fault  do  they  find  with  the  picture  ?" 

"  None." 

"  How,  none  ;  is  it  not  bad,  then  ? " 

"  It  is  good." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"  Then  it  is  a  piece  of  ill-luck,  that  is  all.  Now,  if  you 
could  find  a  member  of  the  committee  to  ask  to  have  it 
hung  on  the  line,  he  would  have  it  done,  for  the  picture  is 
good." 

"  And  you— could  you  not  have  it  done  ?  " 

"  I  am  only  a  member  of  the  bureau  whose  duty  it  is  to 
see  that  the  order  of  the  numbers  is  not  interfered  with  ; 
But  if  any  other  member  should  ask  to  have  it  done,  be 
sure  I  shall  not  oppose  it." 

Then  I  went  to  see  Julian,  who  laughed  a  little  at  Robert- 
Fleury's  advice,  and  said  I  might  make  my  mind  quite  easy  ; 
that  it  would  surprise  him  very  much  if  I  were  not  on  the 
line,  and  that. — And  then  Robert-Fleury  told  me  that  he 
conscientiously  thought  I  deserved  a  number  2,  and  that, 
morally  speaking,  I  have  received  it.  Morally  speaking ! — 
And  then  it  would  be  only  justice  ! 

Oh,  no ;  To  ask  as  a  favor  that  which  is  my  due,  that 
would  be  too  much  ! 

Friday,  April  4. — The  exhibition  of  Bastien-Lepage  is 
no  doubt  a  brilliant  one,  but  the  pictures  are  almost  all  old 
ones.  They  are  :  i.  A  portrait  of  Mme.  Drouet,  of  last 
year.  2.  Another  portrait  of  1882.  3.  A  landscape  with 
two  women  washing  in  the  foreground,  and  an  apple-tree 
m  blossom,  of  1882  also;  4.  His  picture  for  the  con- 
cours,  which  was  awarded  the  Prix  de  Rome  (he  received 
only  the  second  Prix  de  Rome)  of  1875  ;  and  then  there  is 
a  little  sketch  made  last  year  at  Concarneau — five  in  all. 
"  Le  Mar  de  Damvillers,"  6  ;  "  Les  Bles  ou  les  Faucheurs," 
in  which  only  the  back  of  one  little  mower  is  to  be  seen,  7  ; 


3^0  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

an  aged  mendicant  gathering  wood  in  a  forest,  makes  eight. 
"  Le  Mar  de  Damvillers,"  the  mowers,  and  the  mendicant 
are  in  the  full  sunlight.  His  landscapes  are  of  equal  merit 
with  his  figures,  for  a  truly  great  artist  has  no  specialty. 

I  saw  an  Andromeda  in  the  studio  of  Bastien-Lepage 
which,  although  small,  is  a  study  of  the  nude  such  as  few 
artists  could  make.  Precision  of  outline,  character,  nobility 
of  form,  grace  of  attitude,  fineness  of  tone, — it  possesses  all 
these,  and  in  addition  an  execution  at  once  broad  in  spirit 
and  exquisite  in  detail.  In  short,  it  is  nature  itself,  the 
living  flesh.  Among  twilight  scenes  the  "  Soir  au  Village  " 
is  a  masterpiece.  In  his  poetic  style,  a  la  Millet,  he  has  per- 
haps gone  to  the  extreme.  I  say  a  la  Millet  so  as  to  make 
my  meaning  understood,  for  Bastien  is  always  himself ; 
and  because  Millet  has  painted  sunsets  and  moonlight 
scenes  is  no  reason  why  others  should  not  do  the  same  if 
they  choose. 

The  effect  of  this  "Soir  au  Village"  is  wonderful;  why 
did  I  not  buy  it? 

He  has  also  painted  some  English  landscapes — views  of 
the  Thames,  in  which  one  can  almost  see  the  water  flow- 
ing— that  heavy,  turbid  water  that  moves  onward  in  its  bed 
with  a  snake-like  motion.  To  conclude,  nothing  could  be 
finer  than  his  portraits  in  miniature;  they  are  as  fine  as  the 
portraits  of  the  old  masters.  As  for  the  portrait  of  his 
mother  (life-size)  the  execution  of  it  is  wonderful;  it  is 
nature's  self,  and  the  illusion  is  preserved,  however  closely 
the  picture  be  examined.  The  '  'Jeanne  d' Arc' '  is  an  inspira- 
tion of  genius. 

Bastien-Lepage  is  thirty-five  years  old.  Raphael  died  at 
thirty-seven,  leaving  behind  him  a  greater  number  of  works 
than  Bastien  has  yet  produced.  But  Raphael  had  been 
cradled,  so  to  speak,  in  the  lap  of  duchesses  and  of  cardinals, 
who  procured  for  him  the  instructions  of  the  great  Perugino ; 
Raphael  at  the  age  of  fifteen  made  copies  of  his  master's 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF.  381. 

paintings  that  could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the  orig- 
inals—at fifteen  he  was  already  a  great  artist.  And  then, 
in  those  great  paintings  that  we  admire  as  much  for  the 
time  in  which  they  were  executed  as  for  their  merit,  the 
chief  part  of  the  work  was  done  by  the  pupils;  in  many  of 
them,  indeed,  with  the  exception  of  the  Cartoons,  there  is 
nothing  of  Raphael's  work. 

Whereas  Bastien-Lepage  in  his  early  years  sorted  letters 
in  the  post-office  in  Paris  to  gain  a  livelihood.  He  exhib- 
ited, I  believe,  for  the  first  time  in  1869. 

In  this  respect,  however,  he  was  no  worse  off  than  I,  who 
have  always  lived  amid  surroundings  little  favorable  to  art. 
True,  I  took  a  few  drawing  lessons  in  my  childhood,  as  all 
children  do,  and  fourteen  or  fifteen  lessons  afterward,  for 
a  space  of  three  or  four  years,  still  continuing  to  live  in 
the  midst  of  these  same  surroundings.  That  would  give  me 
six  years  and  a  few  months  of  study,  but  then  there  were 
travels  and  a  serious  illness  to  interfere.  But,  after  all — 
what  have  I  accomplished? 

Have  I  accomplished  as  much  as  Bastien  had  accom- 
plished in  1874?  This  question  is  a  piece  of  insanity. 

If  I  were  to  repeat  in  public,  even  in  the  presence  of 
those  who  are  artists  themselves,  what  I  have  written  here 
of  Bastien,  people  would  declare  me  to  be  insane — some 
from  conviction,  others  on  principle  so  that  they  might  not 
be  compelled  to  admit  the  superior  merit  of  so  young  an 
artist. 

Saturday,  April  5.— Here  are  my  plans: 

First,  I  will  finish  the  painting  at  Sevres.  Then  I  will 
take  up  seriously  the  study  of  sculpture  in  the  mornings, 
and  of  the  nude  in  the  afternoons — the  sketch  for  to-day  is 
already  done.  That  will  take  me  into  July.  In  July  I 
will  begin  a  painting  of  "Evening,"  representing  a  meadow, 
with  a  far-stretching  treeless  road  fading  into  the  sunset  sky 


382  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

in  the  distance.  On  the  road  is  to  be  a  wagon,  drawn  by 
two  oxen  and  filled  with  hay,  on  the  top  of  which  an  old 
man  is  lying  face  downward,  his  chin  resting  in  the  palms 
of  his  hands.  The  outlines  stand  in  bold  relief  against  the 
sunset  sky.  The  oxen  are  led  by  a  country  boy. 

That  would  have  a  simple,  grand,  and  poetic  effect. 

As  soon  as  I  shall  have  finished  this  and  two  or  three 
little  things  I  have  in  hand,  I  will  set  out  for  Jerusalem, 
where  I  shall  spend  the  winter  both  for  my  health  and  on 
account  of  my  picture. 

And  next  winter  Julian  will  call  me  a  great  artist. 

I  write  all  this  here  because  it  is  interesting  to  see  after- 
ward how  our  plans  turn  out. 

Sunday,  April  6. — My  aunt  left  for  Russia  this  evening. 

Saturday,  April  12. — Julian  has  written  to  tell  me  that 
my  picture  is  hung  on  the  line. 

Wednesday,  April  16. — I  go  to  Sevres  every  day.  My 
picture  has  taken  complete  possession  of  me.  The  apple- 
tree  is  in  blossom,  the  trees  around  are  full  of  budding 
leaves,  in  which  the  sunlight  falls,  and  little  yellow  flowers 
dot  the  grass;  at  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree  the  young  girl  is 
seated,  "languid  and  intoxicated,"  as  Andre  Theuriet  says, 
"by  the  balmy  breath  of  Spring."  If  I  can  only  render  the 
effect  of  the  sunlight  and  of  the  budding  life  of  spring,  the 
picture  will  be  beautiful. 

Tuesday,  April  29. — To-morrow  is  varnishing-day.  In 
the  morning  I  shall  see  Figaro  and  the  Gaulois;  what 
will  they  say  of  me?  Will  it  be  good,  will  it  be  bad,  or  will 
they  say  nothing  at  all? 

Wednesday,  April  30. — Things  are  not  so  bad,  after  all, 
for  the  Qaitlois  speaks  very  well  of  me ;  it  gives  me  a  sepa- 


SPRING. 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASUKIRTSEFF.  383 

rate  notice.  The  article  is  very  chic.  It  is  by  Fourcaud, 
the  Wolff  of  the  Gaulois. 

The  Voltaire  treats  me  in  the  same  fashion  as  the  Gau- 
lois. Both  notices  are  important  ones. 

The  Journal  des  Arts  also  mentions  me,  and  Llntransi- 
gc'a/it  speaks  of  me  in  terms  of  praise.  The  other  journals 
will  notice  the  Exhibition  from  day  to  day.  It  is  only 
Figaro,  the  Gaulois,  and  the  Voltaire  that  give  a  general 
mention  of  the  pictures  on  varnishing-day. 

Am  I  satisfied?  It  is  easy  to  answer  that  question ;  I  am 
neither  satisfied  nor  dissatisfied.  My  success  is  just  enough 
to  keep  me  from  being  unhappy ;  that  is  all. 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  Salon.  We  did  not  go  until 
noon  and  we  left  at  five — an  hour  before  the  exhibition 
closes. — I  have  a  headache. 

We  remained  for  a  long  time  seated  on  a  bench  before 
the  picture.  It  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention,  and  I 
smiled  to  myself  at  the  thought  that  no  one  would  ever 
imagine  the  elegantly  dressed  young  girl  seated  before  it, 
showing  the  tips  of  her  little  boots,  to  be  the  artist. 

Ah,  all  this  is  a  great  deal  better  than  last  year! 

Have  I  achieved  a  success,  in  the  true,  serious  meaning 
of  the  word  ?  I  almost  think  so. 

Breslau  has  two  portraits,  only  one  of  which  I  have  seen, 
and  that  surprised  me  greatly.  It  is  a  copy  of  Manet — 
which  I  do  not  like, — and  is  not  so  good  as  her  previous 
work.  Perhaps  you  will  be  shocked  by  the  confession  I  am 
going  to  make,  but — this  does  not  grieve  me ;  neither  am  I 
rejoiced  at  it,  however;  there  is  room  for  every  one,  but 
I  confess  I  am  better  pleased  that  the  picture  is  not  a 
good  one. 

Bastien-Lepage  sends  nothing  but  his  little  picture  of  last 
year — "La  Forge."  He  is  not  yet  well  enough  to  go  on  work- 
ing. The  poor  architect  looks  very  dejected  and  says  he 
is  going  to  throw  himself  into  the  river, 


JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884.     | 

I,  too,  am  sad,  and  notwithstanding  my  painting,  my 
sculpture,  my  music,  my  reading,  I  believe  I  am  tired  of  life. 

Saturday,  May  3. — Emile  Bastien  came  to-day  at  about 
half-past  eleven.  I  went  down  to  see  him,  very  much  sur- 
prised at  his  visit. 

He  had  a  great  many  pleasant  things  to  tell  me  ;  he  says 
I  have  achieved  a  genuine  success. 

"  I  do  not  mean  compared  with  your  previous  work,  or 
with  that  of  your  fellow-pupils  at  the  studio,"  he  said,  "  but 
as  compared  with  that  of  any  artist.  I  saw  Ollendorff 
yesterday,  who  said  that  if  it  were  the  work  of  a  French- 
man, the  State  would  have  purchased  it.  "  Yes,  truly,  M. 
Bashkirtseff  paints  well,"  he  added.  (The  painting  is 
signed  M.  Bashkirtseff.)  "  I  told  him  that  you  were  a 
young  girl — and  a  pretty  one,  I  added.  He  could  not 
believe  it.  Every  one  has  spoken  to  me  of  it  as  a  great 
success." 

Ah,  I  begin  to  believe  in  it  a  little,  myself.  I  am  always 
slow  to  believe  in  any  piece  of  good  fortune,  lest  I  should 
be  disappointed  afterward. 

In  short,  I  shall  be  the  last  to  believe  that  people  believe 
in  my  genius.  But  it  really  seems  as  if  they  would,  in  the 
end. 

"  A  genuine  and  great  success,"  Emile  Bastien  says. 

Is  it  then  a  success  equal  to  that  of  Jules  Bastien,  in 
1874  or  1875  ?  Ah,  if  it  only  were  !  I  am  not  yet  over- 
joyed, however,  for  I  can  scarcely  believe  that.  I  want  to 
be  overjoyed. 

This  very  good  friend  of  mine  has  asked  me  to  sign  a 
paper  giving  permission  to  Charles  Baucle,  the  engraver, 
and  an  intimate  friend  of  his  brother,  to  photograph  and 
engrave  my  painting  for  the  Monde  Illustrt.  That  will  be 
of  very  great  advantage  to  me, 


i884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  3ASHKIRTSEFF.  385 

He  told  me  also  that  Friant  (who  is  a  man  of  talent)  is 
enthusiastic  about  my  picture. 

People  whom  I  have  never  seen  talk  about  me  are  inter- 
ested in  me,  discuss  .my  merits.  What  happiness  !  Ah.  I 
have  waited  for  this  and  hoped  for  this  so  long  that,  now 
that  it  has  come,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it. 

I  received  a  letter  from  a  stranger  yesterday  asking  my 
permission  to  photograph  my  picture.  I  prefer  that  Hande 
should  do  it,  however  (the  one  Bastien-Lepage  calls  Chariot, 
and  to  whom  he  writes  letters  eight  pages  long). 

I  am  going  down  to  mamma's  drawing-room  now,  to 
receive  the  congratulations  of  all  the  imbeciles  who  regard 
my  pictures  as  the  works  of  a  woman  of  society,  and  who 
pay  any  little  fool  the  same  compliments  as  they  pay  me. 

Rosalie,  I  think,  is  the  one  who  takes  the  liveliest  satis- 
faction in  my  success.  She  is  wild  with  joy ;  when  she 
speaks  to  me  about  it  she  shows  the  delight  an  old  nurse 
might  show  at  the  success  of  her  nursling  ;  and  she  talks 
of  it  to  everybody,  with  the  garrulity  of  a  portress.  For 
her  this  is  an  event,  a  piece  of  good-fortune  that  has  befallen 
her. 

Monday,  May  5. — Death  is  a  thing  we  write  and  talk 
about  lightly  enough,  but  to  think  one  is  going  to  die  soon, 
to  believe  it — that  is  another  matter.  Do  I  then  believe  that 
I  am  going  to  die  soon  ?  No,  but  I  fear  it. 

The  fact  is  not  to  be  disguised  ;  I  have  consumption. 
The  right,  lung  is  far  gone,  and  the  left  lung  has  bvi-n 
affected  for  a  year  past.  Both  lungs,  then.  If  I  were  dif- 
ferently built,  I  should  look  almost  thin.  Not  that  I  am 
much  thinner  than  many  other  young  girls  are,  but  I  am 
much  more  so  than  I  was.  A  year  ago  my  figure  was  per- 
fect— neither  too  stout  nor  too  thin.  At  present  the  flc^h 
on  my  arms  is  no  longer  firm,  and  on  the  upper  part  of  the 
arm,  near  the  shoulder,  where  a  smooth  round  smf.ur  \\.is 


3^6  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.   '      [1884 

to  be  seen  before,  the  bone  is  plainly  visible.  In  short,  my 
health  is  gone  past  recovery.  "  But,  wretched  creature," 
you  will  say,  "  why  then  will  you  not  take  more  care  of  your- 
self?" But  I  take  excessive  care  of  myself.  I  have  had  my 
chest  burned  on  both  sides,  so  that  I  shall  be  unable  to 
wear  a  low-necked  dress  for  four  months  to  come.  And  it 
will  be  necessary  to  continue  the  burnings  from  time  to  time 
so  that  I  may  be  able  to  sleep.  The  question  is  no  longer 
one  of  getting  well.  It  may  be  thought  that  I  exaggerate 
matters  ;  but  no,  I  say  only  what  is  the  truth.  And  besides 
the  burnings  there  are  so  many  other  things  to  be  done.  I 
do  them  all ;  I  take  cod-liver  oil,  arsenic,  and  goat's  milk — 
they  have  bought  me  a  goat. 

I  may  linger  on  for  a  while,  but  I  am  doomed. 

The  trouble  is  that  I  have  had  too  many  things  to  con- 
tend against,  and  they  are  killing  me  ;  this  was  only  to  be 
expected,  but  it  is  none  the  less  horrible. 

There  are  so  many  things  to  make  life  interesting  ;  read- 
ing alone  would  be  enough, 

I  have  just  obtained  the  complete  works  of  Zola  and 
Renan,  and  some  of  Taine's  works.  I  prefer  Taine's 
"  Revolution  "  to  that  of  Michelet.  Michelet  is  rambling, 
and  wanting  in  precision  of  thought,  and  notwithstanding 
his  sympathy  with  the  heroic  aspects  of  the  Revolution,  and 
Taine's  evident  purpose  to  depict  it  on  its  worst  side,  I  like 
Taine's  work  best. 

And  what  is  to  be  said  of  art  ?  Ah,  if  one  could  only 
believe  in  a  beneficent  God  who  interests  himself  in  our 
affairs  and  arranges  them  to  our  satisfaction  ! 

Tuesday,  May  6. — I  have  been  devoting  all  my  time  to 
reading  ;  I  have  read  all  Zola's  works.  He  is  an  intellectual 
giant. 

Here  is  another  man  of  genius  whom  the  French  people 
evidently  do  not  appreciate  ! 


1884.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSl-.l I- .  387 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Dusseldorff,  containing 
a  request  for  permission  to  engrave  and  publish  my  picture, 
as  well  as  some  other  things  of  mine.  This  is  amusing. 
As  for  me  I  cannot  believe  in  it  yet.  In  short,  1  must 
acknowledge  that  I  have  achieved  a  success — every  one  tells 
me  so.  They  did  not  tell  me  so  last  year,  however.  I.u^t 
year  I  obtained  some  reputation  as  an  artist,  owing  to  the 
pastel ;  but  it  was  nothing  compared  to  the  reputation  this 
year's  picture  has  given  me.  Of  course  it  is  not  an  astound- 
ing success  ;  and  my  name,  announced  in  any  drawing- 
room  to-night,  would  not  create  the  slightest  sensation. 
And  to  convince  me  of  my  success  and  make  me  perfectly 
happy,  that  would  be  necessary. 

Yes,  when  my  name  is  mentioned  every  voice  must  be 
hushed,  every  head  turned  in  my  direction,  in  order  to  sat- 
isfy me. 

Since  the  opening  of  the  Salon  there  is  not  a  single  jour- 
nal that  has  not  spoken  of  my  picture  ;  but  that  is  not  all ; 
there  was  an  article  by  Etincelle  in  the  Paris  of  this  morn- 
ing. It  is  very  chic  !  I  come  immediately  after  Claire  and 
have  as  many  lines  devoted  to  me  as  she  has  !  I  am  a 
Greuze  !  I  am  a  blonde,  with  liquid  eyes  and  the  imperi- 
ous brow  of  one  destined  to  become  famous;  I  dress  witli 
elegance ;  I  have  marked  ability,  and  my  pictures  are  good 
specimens  of  the  realistic  school,  after  the  manner  of  Bas- 
tien-Lepage.  But  this  is  not  all ;  I  have  the  smile  and  the 
winning  grace  of  a  child.  And  I  am  not  transported  with 
delight  ?  Well,  no,  not  at  all. 

Thursday,  May  8.— How  is  it  that  Wolff  has  made  no 
mention  of  my  picture  !  It  is  possible,  indeed,  that  he  may 
not  yet  have  seen  it  ;  his  attention  may  have  been  divi-rti-d 
by  something  while  he  was  making  the  tour  of  the  room  in 
which  it  is  hung.  It  cannot  be  because  I  am  unworthy  of 


388  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASI1KIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

engaging  the  attention  of  so  famous  a  man,  for  he  has 
noticed  persons — of  even  less  importance  than  I. 

What  is  it  then  ?  Is  it  a  piece  of  ill-luck,  like  the  num- 
ber 3  ?  I  do  not  believe  in  making  ill-luck  an  excuse  for 
our  want  of  success — that  would  be  too  easy  a  way  of 
soothing  one's  wounded  self-love ;  and,  besides,  it  makes 
one  look  foolish.  I  attribute  it  rather  to  my  want  of 
merit. 

And  the  most  astounding  thing  is  that  this  is  the  truth. 

Friday,  May  9. — I  am  reading  Zola,  and  I  admire  him 
greatly.  His  criticisms  and  studies  are  admirable,  and  I 
am  delighted  with  them.  To  gain  the  love  of  such  a  man, 
what  would  not  a  woman  do  ?  Do  you  suppose  me,  then, 
capable  of  love,  as  another  woman  might  be  ?  Oh,  Heaven  ! 

Well,  the  affection  I  felt  for  Bastien-Lepage  was  the 
same  as  that  I  now  feel  for  Zola,  whom  I  have  never  seen, 
who  is  forty-five  years  old,  and  corpulent,  and  who  has  a 
wife.  I  ask  you  if  the  men  one  meets  in  society — the  men 
one  is  expected  to  marry — are  not  altogether  absurd  ? 
What  could  I  find  to  say  to  any  one  of  those  the  whole  day 
long  ? 

Emile  Bastien  dined  with  us  to-day,  and  told  me  he 
would  bring  M.  Hayem,  a  well-known  art-connoisseur,  to 
see  me  next  Thursday  morning. 

He  possesses  pictures  of  Delacroix,  Corot,  and  Bastien- 
Lepage,  and  he  has  a  special  gift  for  discovering  latent 
genius. 

The  day  following  the  one  in  which  the  portrait  of  Bas- 
tien.-Lepage's  grandfather  was  exhibited,  Hayem  went  to 
see  the  artist  in  his  studio  and  gave  him  an  order  for  a 
portrait  of  his  father.  It  seems  he  has  an  astonishingly 
keen  scent  for  genius  ;  Emile  Bastien  saw  him  standing  be- 
fore my  picture  to-day,  looking  at  it. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  he  asked  him. 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAS1IKIRTSE1-1-.  389 

"I  think  it  very  good,"  returned  the  connoisseur;  "do 
you  know  the  artist  ?  Is  she  young  ?  "  and  so  on. 

This  Hayem  has  been  following  me  since  last  year,  when 
he  looked  at  my  pastel,  as  he  did  at  my  painting  this  year. 

In  short,.they  are  coming  here  on  Thursday;  he  wishes 
to  buy  one  of  my  pictures. 

Monday,  May  12. — After  a  period  of  intensely  cold 
weather,  the  temperature  for  the  last  three  days  has  risen 
to  28  or  29  degrees.  This  is  overpowering. 

While  waiting  for  M.  Hayem's  visit,  I  have  been  finish- 
ing a  study  of  a  little  girl,  in  the  garden. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  we  met  Hecht  on  the  staircase 
of  the  Italiens.  He  spoke  enthusiastically  of  my  picture. 

I  have  not  yet  achieved  the  success  I  desire,  however. 
But  neither  had  Bastien-Lepage  achieved  the  success  he 
desired,  before  he  exhibited  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather. 
True,  but  nevertheless — as  I  am  fated  to  die  soon,  I  want 
success  to  come  quickly. 

AH  the  symptoms  seem  to  indicate  that  Bastien-Lepage 
has  a  cancer  in  the  stomach.  It  is  all  over  with  him,  then. 
But  perhaps  they  are  mistaken.  The  poor  fellow  cannot 
sleep.  It  is  atrocious.  And  his  porter  probably  enjoys 
excellent  health.  It  is  atrocious. 

Thursday,  May  15. — E.  Bastien  came  with  M.  Hayem 
this  morning  to  see  my  pictures.  .Is  it  not  absurd  ?  I  can 
scarcely  believe  it  to  be  true  :  I  am  an  artist.  I  have  gen- 
ius— and  speaking  seriously,  not  in  jest.  And  a  man  of  M. 
Hayem's  reputation  comes  to  see  my  paintings,  and  cares 
to  look  at  what  I  have  done.  Can  it  be  possible  ? 

Emile  Bastien  is  delighted  at  all  this.  The  other  day  he 
said  to  me  :  "  It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  I  inysrif  who 
was  concerned."  The  poor  fellow  is  very  unhappy  ;  1 
his  brother  will  not  get  over  this. 


390  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

May  15. — I  spent  the  whole  afternoon  walking  up  and 
down  my  room,  very  happy,  with  little  shivers  running  up 
and  down  my  back  at  the  thought  of  the  medal. 

The  medal  is  for  the  public  ;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  prefer 
such  a  success  as  mine,  without  a  medal,  to  some  kinds  of 
medals. 

Saturday,  May  17. — I  have  just  returned  from  the  Bois, 
where  I  went  with  the  demoiselles  Staritsky,  who  are  in 
Paris  for  a  few  days  ;  I  met  Bagnisky  there,  who  told  me 
they  were  discussing  the  Exhibition  at  Bogoluboff's  the 
other  day,  and  that  some  one  remarked  that  my  pictures 
resembled  the  paintings  of  Bastien-Lepage. 

On  the  whole,  I  am  flattered  by  the  stir  my  picture  has 
made.  I  am  envied  :  I  am  slandered  ;  I  am  some  one  ;  so 
that  I  may  be  allowed  to  put  on  airs  if  I  choose. 

Instead  of  doing  this,  however,  I  cry  out  in  a  heart- 
breaking tone,  "  Is  it  not  horrible  and  enough  to  discour- 
age any  one  ?  I  spend  six  years — the  six  best  years  of  my 
life — working  like  a  galley-slave,  seeing  no  one,  enjoying 
nothing  ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  succeed  in  painting  a 
good  picture,  and  they  dare  to  say  I  have  received  assist- 
ance in  doing  it !  The  reward  of  all  my  efforts  is  to  be 
vilely  slandered  !  " 

This  I  say  half-jestingly,  half  seriously,  reclining  on  a 
bearskin  with  my  arms  hanging  listlessly  by  my  sides. 
Mamma  takes  it  all  seriously,  however,  and  this  drives  me 
wild. 

They  give  the  medal  of  honor  to  X ,  let  us  suppose  ; 

naturally  I  cry  out  that  it  is  an  injustice,  that  it  is  a  shame  ; 
that  I  am  furious,  etc. 

Mamma  :  "  But,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  get  so  excited  ; 
they  have  not  given  it  to  him  ;  it  is  not  true,  they  have  not 
given  it  to  him.  And  if  they  have  done  so,  they  have  done 
it  on  purpose  ;  they  know  your  disposition  ;  they  know  you 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKlRTSEFF.  391 

will  fly  into  a  rage  about  it.  They  have  done  it  purposely, 
and  you  allow  yourself  to  be  caught  in  the  trap,  like  a 
little  fool  ! " 

This  is  not  an  accusation,  remember ;  it  is  only  a  sup. 
position  ;  but  wait  until  X  receives  his  medal,  and  you 
shall  see  ! 

Another  example  :  The  novel  of  the  pitiful  creature  Y, 
who  happens  to  be  in  fashion  just  no\v,  has  reached — I 
don't  know  how  many  editions.  Naturally,  I  am  enraged. 
"You  see,"  I  cry,  "this  is  what  the  public  like;  this  is 
what  their  minds  feed  upon!  O  temporal  O  mores!" 
Would  you  believe  that  mamma  begins  the  same  tirade 
over  again,  or  almost  the  same  as  in  the  case  of  X.  This 
has  already  happened  more  than  once.  She  is  afraid  I 
shall  break  in  pieces  at  the  slightest  shock ;  that  it  will  kill 
me  ;  and  she  seeks  to  save  me  from  this  fate  by  such  means 
as  cause  me  an  attack  of  fever  in  the  end. 

Again  :  X,  Y,  or  Z  chances  to  say  in  the  course  of  a 
visit,  "  Do  you  know  that  the  ball  at  Larochefoucauld's  was 
a  very  brilliant  affair?" 

I  scowl  at  this.  Mamma  observes  it,  and  five  minutes 
later  says  something,  as  if  by  chance,  that  is  calculated  to 
disparage  the  ball  in  my  eyes — if  she  does  not  try  to  prove 
that  it  has  not  taken  place  at  all. 

It  has  come  to  this — inventions  and  childish  subterfuges  ; 
it  makes  me  foam  with  rage  to  think  that  they  should  believe 
me  so  easily  imposed  upon. 

Tuesday,  May  20. — I  went  to  the  Sakn  at  ten  o'clock 

this  morning  with  M.  H .  He  says  my  picture  is  so 

good  that  people  think  I  have  received  assistance  in  paint- 
ing  it. 

This  is  outrageous. 

He  had  the  daring  to  say  that  Bastien  has  never  com- 
posed a  picture,  that  he  is  a  portrait-painter ;  that  his  pic- 


392  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1884. 

tures  are  only  portraits,  and  that  he  has  never  done  any- 
thing in  the  nude.  The  audacity  of  this  Jew  amazes  me. 

He  spoke  of  the  medal  and  said  he  would  interest  himself 
about  it ;  he  knows  all  the  members  of  the  committee. 

We  went  from  the  Salon  to  Robert-Fleury's.  I  told  him 
very  excitedly  that  I  was  accused  of  not  having  painted  my 
own  picture. 

He  said  he  had  heard  nothing  about  it ;  that  such  a  thing 
was  not  mentioned  by  any  member  of  the  committee  ;  that 
if  it  had  been  mentioned,  he  was  there  to  contradict  it.  He 
thought  me  much  more  agitated  than  I  really  was,  and 
came  home  with  me  to  breakfast,  so  as  to  soothe  and  con- 
sole me.  "  How  can  you  let  everything  agitate  you  in  this 
way?"  he  said.  "Such  things  should  be  treated  with  the 
contempt  they  deserve." 

"  I  only  wish  one  of  the  committee  would  say  such  a 
thing  in  my  presence,"  he  added,  "  I  should  be  furious,  I 
would  annihilate  him  on  the  spot."  , 

"Ah,  thank  you,  monsieur,"  I  said. 

"  No,"  he  returned,  "  you  must  not  thank  me  ;  the  ques- 
tion is  not  one  of  friendship,  it  is  one  of  justice  ;  and  I 
know  what  you  can  do  better  than  any  one  else." 

He  repeated  all  these  pleasant  things  to  me  again  and 
again,  and  also  said  that  my  chances  of  receiving  the  medal 
were  good  ;  one  can  never  tell  with  certainty,  of  course, 
but  it  appears  that  I  have  a  good  chance. 

Saturday,  May  24. — The  medals  of  the  first  and  second 
classes  are  to  be  awarded  to-day  ;  to-morrow  those  of  the 
third  class. 

To-day  is  warm  and  I  feel  tired.  The  France  Ilhistre  has 
asked  my  permission  to  reproduce  the  painting.  Some  one 
called  Lecadre  has  written  to  me  asking  permission  also. 
I  have  granted  it  in  both  cases  ;  let  them  reproduce  it  as 
much  as  they  will. 


iS34.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  393 

And  then  medals  are  awarded  to  paintings  that  are  not 
so  good  as  mine.  Oh,  I  am  not  at  all  uneasy  ;  true  genius 
will  make  itself  recognized  under  all  circumstances  ;  only 
it  is  tiresome  to  be  waiting  for  anything.  It  is  better  not 
to  count  upon  it.  The  mention  was  promised  as  a  certainty  ; 
the  medal  is  doubtful,  but  it  will  be  unjust  if  I  do  not  re- 
ceive it. 

Evidently. 

Sunday,  May  25. — What  have  I  accomplished  since  the 
first  of  May  ?  Nothing.  And  why  ?  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

I  have  just  come  from  Sevres  ;  it  is  frightful  ;  the  land- 
scape is  so  changed  that  it  will  never  do ;  it  is  Spring  no 
longer.  And  then  my  apple-blossoms  (in  the  painting) 
have  turned  yellow  ;  I  had  mixed  in  too  much  oil.  I  was 
an  idiot,  but  I  have  altered  it ;  well,  we  shall  see.  But  this 
picture  must  be  finished.  What  with  the  Salon,  the  news- 
papers, the  rain,  H— —  and  other  stupid  things  of  the  kind, 
I  have  lost  twenty-five  days  ;  this  is  maddening ;  but  there 
is  an  end  to  it  all  now. 

The  medal  is  to  be  awarded  to-day,  and  it  is  now  four 
o'clock.  The  rain  is  falling  in  torrents.  Last  year  I  was 
sure  of  receiving  it,  and  all  that  troubled  me  was  having  to 
wait  for  the  news.  This  year  I  am  by  no  means  sure  of 
receiving  it,  and  I  am  much  more  tranquil  than  I  was  thru. 

This  year  it  is  yes  or  no,  without  any  doubt  about  the 
matter.  If  it  is  yes,  I  shall  know  it  by  eight  o'clock  this 
evening.  Meantime  I  shall  go  recline  in  the  easy-chair  by 
the  window,  and  amuse  myself  looking  out  at  the  passers- 
by  while  I  am  waiting  for  the  news. 

It  is  now  twenty  minutes  past  five,  and  I  am  not  much 
more  tired  than  if  I  had  remained  idle  all  this  time  without 
waiting  for  anything. 

It  vexes  me  to  think  of  that  oil  that  has  turned  my  apple- 
blossoms  jellow.  When  I  looked  at  them  for  the  first  time 


394  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

the  perspiration  broke  out  on  my  face.  Let  us  hope  it  will 
not  be  very  noticeable,  however. — In  two  hours  more  I  shall 
know.  Perhaps  you  think  I  am  very  nervous  about  the 
matter.  No,  I  assure  you  ;  I  am  not  much  more  nervous 
than  I  have  often  been  after  spending  an  afternoon  listless 
and  alone,  doing  nothing. 

In  any  case  I  shall  learn  the  result  from  to-morrow's 
papers. 

I  am  tired  to  death  waiting  ;  I  am  feverish,  and  I  have  a 
slight  headache. 

Ah,  I  shall  not  receive  it,  and  it  is  the  thought  of  what 
mamma  will  say  that  most  annoys  me  !  I  do  not  wish  my 
affairs  to  be  pried  upon  by  others,  my  feelings  to  be  com- 
mented upon  by  them.  It  makes  me  turn  hot,  as  if  I  had 
committed  some  immodest  action.  No  matter  what  my 
feelings  are,  I  wish  to  be  allowed  to  indulge  them  in  peace. 
Mamma  will  imagine  that  I  am  grieving,  and  that  exasper- 
ates me. 

The  air  is  close  and  foggy  ;  I   can  scarcely  breathe. 

It  is  thirty-five  minutes  past  seven  ;  I  am  called  to  dinner. 
All  is  over. 

Monday,  May  26. — This  is  better  ;  instead  of  stupidly 
waiting,  I  am  now  indignant,  but  indignation  is  a  feeling 
one  need  not  conceal  and  is  rather  refreshing  than  other- 
wise. Twenty-six  medals  were  awarded  yesterday  ;  there 

are  still  six  more  to  be  awarded.  M has  received  a 

medal  for  his  portrait  of  Julian. 

What  can  be  the  reason  that  I  have  received  no  medal  ? 
For  certainly  pictures  no  better  than  mine  have  received 
medals. 

Injustice  ?  That  is  an  excuse  I  am  not  very  fond  of. 
It  is  one  that  any  fool  can  claim. 

They  may  admire  my  picture  or  not,  as  they  choose,  but 
it  is  an  undeniable  fact  that  it  contains  seven  figures,  life^ 


i3S4]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  395 

size,  grouped  together,  on  a  background  that  has  some 
merit  also.  Every  one  whose  opinion  is  worth  having 
thinks  it  very  good,  or  at  least  good  ;  some  persons  have 
even  said  that  I  received  assistance  in  painting  it.  1 
the  elder  Robert-Fleury,  without  knowing  whose  the  pic- 
ture was,  thought  it  very  good  ;  and  Boulanger  has  said  to 
people  who  do  not  know  me  that  he  does  not  like  that 
style,  it  is  true,  but  that  the  picture  is  well  executed  and 
very  interesting. 

What  can  be  the  reason  I  have  received  no  medal  then  ? 

Paintings  without  any  merit  whatever  have  been  awarded 
medals  ;  I  know  very  well  that  this  is  often  the  case.  But 
on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  artist  of  merit  who  has  not 
received  one  or  more  medals.  What  then  ?  what  then  ?  I 
also  have  eyes  to  see ;  my  picture  is  a  composition. 

Suppose  I  had  painted  those  urchins  in  the  costume  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  executed  the  work  in  a  studio — which 
is  much  easier  than  to  work  in  the  open  air — against  a 
background  of  tapestry. 

I  should  then  have  a  historical  picture  which  would  be 
very  much  admired  in  Russia. 

What  am  I  to  believe  ? 

Here  is  another  request  for  permission  to  reproduce  my 
picture  ;  it  is  from  Barschet,  the  celebrated  editor. 

This  is  the  fifth  I  have  given.     And  what  then  ? 

Tuesday,  May  27. — It  is  over.  I  have  received  no 
medal. 

Oh,  it  is  humiliating  !  I  had  had  hopes  up  to  this  morn- 
ing. And  if  you  but  knew  the  things  that  have  received 
medals  ! 

Why  am  I  not  disheartened  by  this  ?  I  am  very  much 
surprised  at  it,  however.  If  my  picture  is  good,  why  has  it 
not  received  a  prize  ? 

Intrigues,  you  will  say. 


396  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  B A SHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

But  all  the  same,  if  my  picture  is  good,  why  has  it  not 
received  a  prize  ?  I  have  no  wish  to  pose  as  an  unsophisti- 
cated child  who  ignores  that  there  are  such  things  as  in- 
trigues, but  it  appears  to  me  that  if  the  painting  really  had 
merit — 

Then  the  trouble  is  that  the  painting  is  bad  ?  No,  not 
that  either. 

I  have  eyes  to  see  for  myself — and  then,  others  have 
praised  it.  And  how  about  the  newspapers  ? 

Thursday,  May  29. — I  have  had  a  fever  all  night,  and  my 
nerves  are  in  a  state  of  the  most  frightful  irritation ;  it  is 
enough  to  make  one  mad.  This  irritation  of  the  nerves, 
however,  is  due  as  much  to  having  passed  a  sleepless  night 
as  to  my  not  having  received  a  medal. 

I  am  very  unhappy.  I  wish  that  I  could  believe  in  God. 
Is  it  not  natural  to  look  up  to  some  power  above  when  one 
is  sick  and  miserable  and  unfortunate  ?  One  would  fain 
believe  in  an  Omnipotent  Being,  whose  aid  one  has  only  to 
invoke  in  order  to  receive  it ;  to  whom  one  can  address 
one's-self  without  being  slighted  or  humiliated,  and  to 
whom  one  has  access  at  all  times.  When  physicians  fail  to 
help  us,  we  ask  that  a  miracle  may  be  wrought ;  the  miracle 
is  not  wrought,  but  while  we  are  waiting  for  it  we  are  less 
miserable;  this  is  not  much  consolation.  If  there  be  a 
God,  He  must  be  a  just  God  ;  and  if  He  is  just,  how  can 
He  allow  things  to  be  as  they  are  ?  Alas  ?  if  we  let 
thoughts  like  this  enter  into  our  minds,  we  can  no  longer 
believe  in  a  God.  Why  live  ?  What  purpose  is  served  by 
dragging  on  longer  this  miserable  existence  ?  To  die 
would  have  at  least  this  advantage  :  One  might  then  learn 
what  this  other  life  is  that  people  talk  so  much  about ;  that 
is  to  say,  if  there  be  another  life — which  is  what  we  shall 
learn  when  we  are  dead. 


1884.]          JOL'KXAL  Of-  MARIE  BASHKIR  1  SI- 1 •/•'.  397 

Friday,  May  30.— I  have  been  considering  that  it  is  very 
foolish  on  my  part  to  take  no  thought  of  the  only  thing  in 
life  worth  having— the  one  thing  that  can  compensate  for 
every  want,  that  can  make  us  forget  every  misery— love, 
in  a  word.  Two  beings  who  love  each  other  believe  each 
other  to  be  morally  and  physically  perfect,— morally  so, 
especially.  One  who  loves  you  must  of  necessity  be  just, 
loyal,  generous,  and  ready  to  perform  a  heroic  action  with 
simplicity. 

Two  beings  who  love  each  other  believe  the  universe  to 
be  what  the  philosophers,  such  as  Aristotle  and  I,  for  in- 
stance, have  dreamed  it  to  be,— admirable  and  perfect,  and 
this  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  chief  attraction  love  possesses 
for  the  soul. 

In  our  intercourse  with  our  family,  with  our  friends,  with 
the  world,  some  glimpse  of  the  weaknesses  of  humanity  is 
sure  to  be  had  ;  here  of  avarice  or  of  folly,  there  of  envy, 
of  meanness,  or  of  injustice ;  the  friend  we  love  most 
dearly  has  thoughts  which  he  conceals  from  us,  so  that,  as 
Maupassant  says,  man  is  always  alone,  for  even  in  their  most 
confidential  moments  there  will  still  remain  some  thought 
hidden  from  him  in  the  bosom  of  his  friend. 

Well,  love  works  this  miracle  of  blending  two  souls  in 
one.  It  is  only  an  illusion,  it  is  true,  but  what  matter  ? 
That  which  we  believe  to  exist,  exists.  Love  makes  the  uni- 
verse appear  to  us  such  as  it  ought  to  be.  If  I  were 
God- 
Well,  what  then  ? 

Saturday,  May  31. — Villevielle  has  just  told  me  that  the 
reason  I  did  not  receive  a  medal  was  because  I  made  a  fuss 
about  last  year's  mention,  and  spoke  publicly  of  the  com- 
mittee as  idiots.  It  is  true  that  I  did  so. 

My»picture  is  not  indeed  a  very  large  one,  nor  is  it  \ 
bold  in  style ;  if  it  were,  the  "  Meeting  "would  be  a  master- 


398  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

piece.  But  is  it  necessary  that  a  painting  should  be  a 
masterpiece  to  obtain  an  insignificant  third-class  medal  ? 
The  engraving  of  Baude  has  appeared,  accompanied  by  an 
article  which  says  that  the  public  are  disappointed  at  my 
having  received  no  medal.  My  painting  is  dry,  it  is  said. 
But  they  say  the  same  thing  of  Bastien's  painting. . 

Is  there  any  one  in  the  world  who  can  say  that  the  por- 
trait of  M "has  more  merit  than  my  picture  has  ? 

Bastien-Lepage  received  eight  votes  for  his  "Jeanne 

d'Arc."  M received  a  medal  for  his  portrait.  And  the 

great  M received  twenty-eight  votes,  exactly  twenty 

more  than  I  received.  There  is  neither  conscience  nor 
justice  in  the  world.  Truly  I  know  not  what  to  think. 

I  went  downstairs  when  H came,  in  order  to  show 

this  Jew  that  I  am  not  cast  down. 

I  appeared  so  haughty  and  unconcerned  while  we  chatted 
of  photographs,  engravings,  patrons  of  art,  etc.,  that  this 
son  of  Israel  finally  made  up  his  mind  to  transact  some 
business  with  me — even  though  I  have  received  no  medal  ! 
"  I  will  buy  your  pastel  "  ("  Armandine  "),  he  said,  "  and  the 
Head  of  the  Laughing  Baby."  Two  !  He  arranged  the 
matter  of  the  purchase  with  Dina,  but  we  referred  him,  as 
to  the  price,  to  Emile  Bastien.  I  am  very  well  satisfied. 

Sunday,  June  i. — For  a  month  past  I  have  done  nothing! 
Yes,  I  began  the  works  of  Sully-Prudhomme  yesterday  morn- 
ing and  I  have  been  reading  them  ever  since.  I  have  two 
of  his  books,  and  I  like  them  extremely. 

I  trouble  my  head  but  little  about  verse  ;  when  it  is  bad 
it  annoys  me,  but,  otherwise,  I  think  only  of  the  idea  ex- 
pressed. If  people  like  to  make  rhymes,  let  them  do  so, 
provided  only  that  they  do  it  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  dis- 
tract my  attention  from  the  thought.  And  the  thought  is 
what  pleases  me  in  Sully-Prudhomme.  There  is  an  ele- 
vation of  style,  a  subtlety  of  reasoning,  that  is  almost  ab- 


iS84.]         JOCKXAL  01-  MAKIl-    nASIIKlKTSKW.  399 

stract  in  his  works,  which  is  in  harmony  with  my  own  way  of 
thinking. 

I  spent  several  hours,  stretched  on  my  divan  or  walk- 
ing up  and  down  on  my  balcony,  reading  the  preface  to 
"  Lucretius,"  as  well  as  the  work  itself—"  De  Natura 
Rerum."  Those  who  have  read  the  book  will  be  able  to 
appreciate  this. 

To  understand  this  work  great  concentration  of  thought 
is  necessary.  Even  those  accustomed  to  deal  with  such 
subjects  must  find  it  difficult  reading.  I  understood  all  I 
read,  though  the  meaning  would  at  times  escape  me  ;  but 
on  such  occasions  I  read  the  passage  over  and  over  again 
until  I  had  grasped  the  thought.  I  ought  to  admire  Sully- 
Prudhomme  greatly  for  writing  things  which  I  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  understand. 

He  is  as  familiar  with  the  management  of  thoughts  as  I 
am  with  the  management  of  colors. 

Then  he  ought  to  admire  me  greatly  too,  for  with  a  few 
"  muddy  paints,"  as  the  antipathetic  Theophile  Gautier  says, 
I  can  create  a  countenance  that  will  express  human  emo- 
tions, landscapes  that  will  reflect  Nature  in  all  her  aspects — 
the  sky,  the  trees,  the  atmosphere.  Probably  he  thinks 
himself  a  thousand  times  superior  to  a  painter,  because  he 

is  able  to  ransack  the  secret  recesses  of  the  mind.     But  what 

\ 

does  he  or  any  one  else  learn  from  that  ? 

How  mind  works  ?  To  give  to  the  intellectual  processes, 
swift  and  elusive  as  they  are,  names — it  seem  to  me  in  my 
ignorance  that  this  is  an  unprofitable  occupation  for  the 
mind.  Jt  is  an  interesting  and  refined  amusement,  and 
one  that  requires  the  exercise  of  skill,  but  what  end  does  it 
serve  ?  Is  it  by  giving  names  to  strange  and  abstract 
things  that  the  great  writers  and  thinkers  of  the  world  have 
been  formed. 

"  Man,"  these  metaphysicians  say,  "can  take  cognizance 
of  an  object  only  in  so  far  as  he  comes  into  relations  with  it, 


4*>°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

etc."  The  greater  number  of  my  readers  will  be  able  to 
make  nothing  out  of  this.  I  will  cite  another  passage: 
"  Our  knowledge,  therefore,  cannot  exceed  the  knowledge 
expressed  in  our  categories,  as  applied  to  our  perceptions." 
Good  :  we  can  understand  no  more  than  we  can  understand. 
That  is  self-evident. 

If  I  had  received  a  thorough  and  systematic  education,  I 
should  be  a  remarkable  person.  Everthing  I  know  I  have 
taught  myself.  I  myself  drew  out  the  plan  of  my  studies  at 
Nice,  with  the  professors  of  the  Lyceum,  who  could  not  get 
over  their  amazement  at  the  intelligence  displayed  in  it.  In 
forming  it  I  was  guided  partly  by  my  own  ideas  in  the 
matter,  partly  by  ideas  gathered  in  the  course  of  my  reading. 
Since  then  I  have  read  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors,  the 
French  and  English  classics,  contemporary  writers — every- 
thing I  came  across,  in  short. 

But  all  this  knowledge  is  in  a  chaotic  state,  notwith- 
standing the  efforts  I  have  made,  through  my  natural  love 
of  harmony,  to  reduce  it  to  order. 

What  is  there  in  this  writer,  Sully-Prudhomme,  to  attract 
me  ?  I  bought  his  works  six  months  ago,  and  tried  to  read 
them  then,  but  cast  them  aside,  after  a  time,  as  agreeable 
verses,  indeed,  but  nothing  more.  To-day  I  found  thoughts 
in  them  that  enchanted  me  and  read  on  for  hours,  under 
the  influence  of  Francois  Coppee's  visit.  But  neither  Coppee 
nor  any  one  else  has  ever  spoken  to  me  of  him.  In  what 
then  does  his  attraction  for  me  consist,  and  how  have  I  came 
to  discover  it  only  now  ? 

I  might,  by  a  great  effort  of  the  mind,  succeed  in  making 
a  philosophical  analysis  of  this  great  achievement  of  the 
human  intellect — "  De  Natura  Rerum."  But  what  purpose 
would  it  serve  ?  Would  it  make  me  alter  a  single  one  of 
my  opinions? 

Thursday,  June  5. — Prater  is  dead  ;  he  had  grown  up  with 


i884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  fl.lSI/A'/KTSEFF.  401 

me  ;  they  bought  him  for  me  at  Vienna  in  1870;  he  was 
three  weeks  old  at  the  time,  and  had  a  habit  of  hiding  be- 
hind  the  trunks,  among  the  papers  in  which  parcels  came 
wrapped  from  the  shops. 

He  was  my  faithful  and  attached  dog ;  he  would  whine 
when  I  left  the  house,  and  pass  whole  hours  at  the  window, 
waiting  for  my  return.  Afterward,  in  Rome,  I  had  a  fancy 
for  another  dog,  and  mamma  took  Prater,  who  was  always 
jealous  of  his  rival,  however.  Poor  Prater,  with  his  tawny 
hide,  like  a  lion's,  and  his  beautiful  eyes  ;  I  blush  for  my- 
self when  I  think  of  my  heartlessness  ! 

My  new  dog,  who  was  called  Pincio,  was  stolen  from 
me  in  Paris.  Instead  of  taking  back  Prater,  who  had  never 
been  able  to  console  himself  for  my  abandonment  of  him,  I 
was  foolish  enough  to  take  Coco  I.  and  afterward  the  real 
Coco.  This  was  base,  it  was  despicable.  For  four  years 
these  two  animals  were  alway  ready  to  devour  each  other, 
and  finally  it  was  necessary  to  shut  Prater  in  an  upper  room, 
where  he  was  kept  a  prisoner,  while  Coco  walked  over 
people  and  did  as  he  chose.  His  death  was  due  to  old 
age.  I  spent  a  couple  of  hours  with  him  yesterday  ;  he 
dragged  himself  to  my  side,  and  rested  his  head  upon  my 
knee. 

Ah,  I  am  a  pretty  wretch,  with  my  affectionate  sentiments. 
What  a  despicable  character  is  mine  !  I  shed  tears  as  I 
write,  and  I  think  the  while  that  these  tears  will  procure 
me,  with  those  who  read  me,  the  reputation  of  having  a 
good  heart.  I  always  intended  to  take  back  the  poor  brute* 
but  never  went  beyond  giving  him  a  lump  of  sugar,  or  a 
caress,  as  I  passed  him  by. 

You  should  have  seen  his  tail  at  such  times  !  It  would 
turn  round  and  round  so  fast  that  it  looked  like  a  wheel. 

It  seems,  after  all,  that  the  poor  creature  is  not  yet  dead  : 
I  had  thought  he  was  dead  because  I  no  longer  saw  him  in 
his  room  ;  he  had  hidden  himself  behind  a  trunk  or  abatli- 


4°2  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAgHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

tub,  as  he  used  to  do  at  Vienna,  and  I  thought  they  had 
taken  away  his  dead  body,  and  were  afraid  to  tell  me  of  it. 
But  his  death  must  certainly  take  place  either  to-night  or 
to-morrow. 

Robert-Fleury  found  me  crying  to-day.  I  had  written 
to  him  in  regard  to  the  reproduction  of  my  picture,  and 
he  came  in  answer  to  my  letter.  It  appears  I  had  neglected 
to  sign  a  little  paper  by  means  of  which  others  were  to  be 
prevented  from  reproducing  the  picture,  and  thus,  perhaps, 
involving  me  in  a  law-suit.  You  must  know  that  I  am  very 
proud  of  all  these  requests  for  permission  to  reproduce  my 
picture,  and  I  should  be  proud  even  of  a  law-suit. 

Friday,  June  6. — I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about 
the  soiree  at  the  Embassy  ;  I  only  fear  that  something  may 
occur  to  spoil  it  for  me.  I  can  never  believe  in  the  possi- 
bility of  anything  pleasant  happening  to  me.  Everything 
may  seem  to  be  propitious,  but  in  the  end  something  is 
always  sure  to  occur,  some  obstacle  to  oppose  itself  to  the 
realization  of  my  hopes.  This  has  been  the  case  for  a  long 
time  past. 

We  went  to  the  Salon  to-day — I,  for  the  purpose  of  see- 
ing the  picture  that  had  received  the  medal.  We  met 
Robert-Fleury  there,  and,  as  we  were  standing  before  one 
of  the  pictures  that  had  been  awarded  a  second-class  medal, 
I  asked  him  what  he  would  say  if  I  had  shown  him  a  pic- 
ture like  that. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  hope  you  will  take  good  care  not 
to  paint  pictures  like  that,"  he  answered  seriously. 

"  But  how  about  the  medal  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  answered,  "  he  is  a  man  who  has  been 
exhibiting  for  a  long  time,  and  then — you  can  understand 
how  it  is — " 

Saturday,  June  7. — We  are  preparing  for  this  night's 
event  in  silence. 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  />'./. S7/AVA1 7\SV  403 

I  am  to  wear  a  gown  of  white  silk  mull.  The  bodice  is 
trimmed  with  two  pieces  of  the  mull,  crossing  each  other  in 
folds,  in  front,  and  fastened  on  the  shoulders  with  knot 
the  material.  The  sleeves  are  short  and  trimmed  in  the 
same  way.  There  is  a  wide,  white  sash  with  long  ends  fall- 
ing behind.  The  skirt  is  made  of  the  mull  draped  from 
left  to  right,  and  falling  to  the  feet.  In  the  back  are  two 
lengths  of  the  material,  the  one  touching  the  ground,  the 
other  a  little  shorter.  My  slippers  are  white  and  quite 
plain.  The  general  effect  is  charming.  My  hair  is  dr< 
&  la  Psyche,  and  is  without  ornament.  The  drapery  in  the 
front  is  a  dream.  It  is  all  so  simple  and  elegant  that  I  shall 
look  very  pretty.  Mamma  will  wear  a  black  damask  gown 
covered  with  jet,  with  a  long  train,  and  diamonds. 

Sunday,  June  8.— I  looked  as  well  as  I  have  ever  looked 
in  my  life,  or  as  it  would  be  possible  for  me  to  look.  The 
gown  produced  a  charming  effect,  and  my  complexion  was 
as  fresh  and  blooming  as  in  the  old  days  at  Nice  or  Rome. 

People  who  only  see  me  as  I  am  every  day  looked  at  me 
with  amazement. 

We  arrived  a  little  late.  Madame  Fredericks  was  not 
with  the  Ambassadress,  with  whom  mamma  exchanged  a  few- 
words.  I  was  very  calm  and  very  much  at  my  ease.  \N  e 

met  many  acquaintances.     Madame  d'A .whom  I  - 

the  Gavinis,  but  who  had   not  bowed  to  me,  bowed  to  me 
last  night  very  graciously.     I  took  the  arm  of  Gavini. 
looked  very  well  with  his  ribbons  and  stars  ;  he  presented 
Menabrea,  the  Italian  Minister,  to  me,  and  we  discussed  art 
together.     Afterwards  M.  de  Lesseps  talked   to  me  for  a 
long  time  about  his  children  and  their  nurses,  and  the  share 
of  the  Suez  Canal.     Then  Chevreau  gave  me  his  arm,  am; 
we  took  a  turn  through  the  rooms  together. 

As  for  the  charts  d'affaires  and  the  attache's,  I  IH- 
them  in  order  to  devote  myself  to  the  old  men,  with  their 


4°4  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

decorations.  Later  on,  having  duly  burned  incense  at  the 
shrine  of  fame,  I  chatted  with  some  of  the  artists  who  were 
there  ;  they  were  very  curious  to  know  me,  and  asked  to 
be  presented  to  me.  But  I  was  so  pretty  and  well-dressed 
that  they  will  be  convinced  that  I  did  not  paint  my  picture 
without  assistance.  There  were  Cheremetieff,  Lehman,  a 
very  amiable  old  man,  of  some  talent,  and  Edelfeldt,  who 
has  a  great  deal  of  talent. 

The  latter  is  a  handsome,  though  vulgar,  young  man — a 
Russian,  from  Finland.  Altogether  I  spent  a  very  pleasant 
evening.  The  chief  thing,  you  see,  is  to  be  pretty  ;  every- 
thing depends  upon  that. 

Tuesday,  June  10. — How  interesting  it  is  to  watch  the 
passers-by  in  the  street ;  to  note  the  expression  on  their 
faces,  their  peculiarities  ;  to  obtain  glimpses  into  the  souls 
of  those  who  are  strangers  to  us  ;  and  to  endow  all  this 
with  life,  or  rather  to  picture  to  ourselves  the  life,  of  each 
of  these  strangers  ! 

One  paints  a  combat  of  Roman  gladiators,  which  one  has 
never  seen,  from  Parisian  models.  Why  not  paint  the 
gladiators  of  Paris  from  the  Parisian  populace,  also  ?  In 
five  or  six  centuries  this  would  be  antiquity,  and  the  fools 
of  that  time  would  regard  it  with  veneration. 

Saturday,  June  14. — AVe  had  a  great  many  visitors  to-day, 
as  it  is  mamma's  birthday.  I  wore  a  very  handsome  gown — 
gray  taffeta,  with  a  white  mull  vest  in  the  style  of  Louis  XVI. 

Monday,  June  16. — We  went  to-night  to  see  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt  in  "  Macbeth  "  (Richepin's  translation).  The  Gavinis 
were  with  us.  I  so  seldom  go  to  the  theater  that  1  enjoyed 
it.  The  declamatory  style  of  the  actors,  however,  offended 
my  artistic  sense.  How  much  more  agreeable  it  would  be 
if  these  people  only  spoke  naturally  ! 


i8S4.]        JOVRtfAL  OF  MARlE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  405 

Marais  ("Macbeth  ")  was  good  at  times  ;  his  intonation 
was  so  theatrical,  so  artificial,  that  it  was  painful  to  listen  to 
him.  Sarah,  however,  is  always  admirable,  though  her 
voice  is  no  longer  the  silvery  voice  it  was. 

Tuesday,  June  17. — I  am  tormented  by  the  thought  of 
my  picture,  and  the  hands  are  still  to  be  done  !  It  interests 
me  no  longer — this  apple-tree  in  blossom,  and  these  vio- 
lets ;  and  this  peasant  girl  half-asleep  !  A  canvas  three 
feet  in  length  would  have  been  quite  large  enough  for  it, 
and  I  have  made  it  life-size.  It  is  good  for  nothing. 
Three  months  thrown  away  ! 

'Wednesday,  June  18. — I  am  still  at  Sevres  !  What  tor- 
ments me  is  that  I  have  an  attack  of  fever  every  day.  And 
then  it  seems  impossible  for*me  to  grow  fat.  Yet  I  drink 
six  or  seven  glasses  of  milk  a  day. 

Friday,  June  20. — The  architect  has  written  to  me  from 
Algiers.  At  the  end  of  my  letter  to  him  I  had  drawn  our 
three  likenesses,  with  a  medal  around  the  neck  of  each. 
To  Jules  I  had  given  the  medal  of  honor,  to  myself  a  medal 
of  the  first,  and  to  the  architect  a  medal  of  the  second  class, 
for  next  year's  Salon.  I  also  sent  him  a  photograph  of 
"The  Meeting."  And  he  tells  me  he  showed  them  both  to 
his  brother,  who  was  delighted  to  be  able  to  form  some 
idea  of  the  picture  he  had  heard  so  much  about,  and  which 
he  thought  very  good. 

"  How  stupid  they  are,"  he  says  his  brother  exclaimed, 
"  not  to  have  awarded  a  medal  to  this  painting,  which  seems 
to  me  very  good  indeed  !  " 

He  would  like  very  much  to  have  written  to  me,  Emile 
adds,  but  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  do  so.  He  still 
suffers  greatly  ;  notwithstanding  this,  however,  he  has  re- 
solved to  start  for  home  a  week  from  to-day.  He  charged 


4°6  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFP.         [1884. 

the  architect  to  give  me  his  friendly  regards,  and  to  thank 
me  for  the  embroidery. 

A  year  ago  this  would  have  delighted  me.  He  would 
like  to  have  written  to  me  !  I  can  only  take  a  retrospective 
pleasure  in  this,  for  at  present  such  things  are  almost  indif- 
ferent to  me. 

At  the  end  of  the  letter  is  my  likeness,  with  the  medal  of 
honor  for  1886  around  the  neck. 

He  must  have  been  touched  by  the  delicate  manner  in 
which  I  sought  to  console  his  brother  in  my  letter.  The 
letter  began  seriously,  with  comforting  words,  and-  ended 
with  pleasantries,  according  to  my  custom. 

Wednesday,  June  25. — I  have  just  been  reading  my  journal 
for  the  years  1875,  1876,  and  1877.  I  find  it  full  of  vague 
aspirations  toward  some  unknown  goal.  My  evenings 
were  spent  in  wild  and  despairing  attempts  to  find  some 
outlet  for  my  powers.  Should  I  go  to  Italy  ?  Remain  in 
Paris  ?  Marry  ?  Paint  ?  What  should  I  strive  to  become  ? 
If  I  went  to  Italy,  I  should  no  longer  be  in  Paris,  and  my 
desire  was  to  be  everywhere  at  once.  What  a  waste  of 
energy  was  there  ? 

If  I  had  been  born  a  man,  I  would  have  conquered 
Europe.  As  I  was  born  a  woman,  I  exhausted  my  energy 
in  tirades  against  fate,  and  in  eccentricities.  There  are 
moments  when  one  believes  one's-self  capable  of  all  things. 
"  If  I  only  had  the  time,"  I  wrote,  "  I  would  be  a  sculptor, 
a  writer,  a  musician  !  " 

I  am  consumed  by  an  inward  fire,  but  death  is  the  inevit- 
able end  of  all  things,  whether  I  indulge  in  these  vain  long- 
ings or  not. 

But  if  I  am  nothing,  if  I  am  to  be  nothing,  why  these 
dreams  of  fame,  since  the  time  I  was  first  able  to  think  ? 
Why  these  wild  longings  after  a  greatness  that  presented 


:884.]      JOURNAL  of  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.        407 

itself  then  to  my  imagination  under  the  form  of  riches  and 
honors  ? 

Why,  since  I  was  first  able  to  think,  since  the  time  when 
I  was  four  years  old,  have  I  had  longings,  vague  but  intense, 
for  glory,  for  grandeur,  for  splendor  ?  How  many  charac- 
ters have  I  been  in  turn,  in  my  childish  imagination  !  First, 
I  was  a  dancer — a  famous  dancer — worshiped  by  all  St. 
Petersburg.  Every  evening  I  would  make  them  put  a  low- 
necked  dress  on  me,  and  flowers  in  my  hair,  and  I  would 
dance,  very  gravely,  in  the  drawing-room,  while  every  one 
in  the  house  looked  on.  Then  I  was  the  most  famous  prima 
donna  in  the  world  ;  I  sang  and  accompanied  myself  on  the 
harp,  and  I  was  carried  in  triumph,  where  or  by  whom  I  do 
not  know.  Then  I  electrified  the  people  by  my  eloquence. 
The  Emperor  of  Russia  married  me  ;  that  he  might  be  able 
to  maintain  himself  on  his  throne.  I  came  into  personal 
relations  with  my  people  ;  I  explained  my  political  views  to 
them  in  my  speeches,  and  both  people  and  sovereign  were 
moved  to  tears. 

And  then  I  was  in  love.  The  man  I  loved  proved  false, 
and  was  afterward  killed  by  some  accident,  generally  a  fall 
from  his  horse,  just  at  the  moment  when  I  felt  that  my  love 
for  him  was  beginning  to  decrease.  When  my  lovers  died 
I  consoled  myself,  but  when  they  proved  false  to  me  I  fell 
into  despair  and  finally  died  of  grief. 

In  short,  I  have  pictured  every  human  feeling,  every 
earthly  pleasure  to  myself  as  superior  to  the  reality,  and  if 
my  dreams  are  to  remain  forever  unrealized,  it  is  better 
that  I  should  die. 

Why  has  not  my  picture  been  awarded  a  medal  ? 

The  medal  !     It  must  be  because  some  of  the  committee 
thought  I  had  received  assistance.     It  has  happened  once 
or  twice  already  that  medals  have  been  given  to  women 
who,  as  has  afterward  been  discovered,  had  received  a- 
ance  in  their  work  ;    and   when  a  medal   has  been  once 


4°8  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

awarded  the  recipient  has  the  right  to  exhibit  on  the  follow- 
ing year,  and  may  send  the  most  worthless  or  insignificant 
picture  if  he  chooses. 

Yet  I  am  young  and  elegant,  and  have  been  praised  by 
the  papers !  But  these  people  are  all  alike.  Breslau,  for 
instance,  said  to  my  model  that  I  would  paint  a  great  deal 
better  if  I  went  less  into  society.  They  think  I  go  out  every 
evening.  How  deceitful  appearances  are  !  But  to  suspect 
that  my  picture  is  not  all  my  own  work  is  too  serious  a 
matter  ;  thank  Heaven,  they  have  not  publicly  given  utter- 
ance to  their  suspicions,  however  !  Robert-Fleury  told  me 
he  was  surprised  that  I  had  not  received  a  medal,  for  that 
every  time  he  spoke  of  me  to  his  colleagues  of  the  com- 
mittee, they  responded,  "//  is  very  good;  it  is  a  very  inter- 
esting picture." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  they  mean  when  they  say  that  ? " 
he  asked  me. 

Then  it  is  this  suspicion. 

Friday,  June  27. — Just  as  we  were  going  to  take  a  drive 
in  the  Bois,  who  should  appear  beside  the  carriage  but  the 
Architect !  They  arrived  in  Paris  this  morning,  and  he 
came  to  tell  us  that  Jules  is  a  little  better ;  that  he  bore 
the  journey  well,  but  that,  unhappily,  he  cannot  leave  the 
house.  It  would  give  him  so  much  pleasure,  his  brother 
added,  to  tell  me  himself  how  greatly  my  picture  had  been 
admired  by  every  one  to  whom  he  had  shown  the  photo- 
graph in  Algiers. 

"  Then  we  will  go  to  see  him  to-morrow,"  said  mamma. 

"  You  could  not  give  him  a  greater  pleasure,"  he 
answered  ;  "  he  says  your  picture — but  no,  he  will  tell  it 
to  you  himself  to-morrow  ;  that  will  be  better." 

Saturday,  June  28. — We  went,  according  to  our  promise, 
to  the  Rue  Legend  re. 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  409 

He  rose  to  receive  us,  and  took  a  few  steps  forward  to 
meet  us ;  he  seemed  mortified  at  the  change  that  had  taken 
place  in  his  appearance. 

He  is  changed,  indeed,  very  much  changed  ;  but  his  dis- 
ease is  not  in  the  stomach  ;  I  am  no  doctor,  but  his  looks 
are  enough  to  tell  me  that. 

In  short,  I  find  him  so  changed  that  all  I  could  say  was : 
"  Well,  so  we  have  you  here  among  us  again."  He  was  not 
at  all  reserved  ;  on  the  contrary  he  was  as  cordial  and 
friendly  as  possible.  He  spoke  in  the  most  flattering  terms 
of  my  picture,  telling  me  again  and  again  not  to  trouble 
myself  about  the  medal — that  the  success  of  the  picture 
itself  was  sufficient. 

I  made  him  laugh,  telling  him  his  illness  would  do  him 
good  ;  that  he  was  beginning  to  grow  too  stout.  The  Archi- 
tect seemed  enchanted  to  see  his  invalid  so  gay  and  so  amia- 
ble. Thus  encouraged,  I  grew  talkative.  He  complimented 
me  on  my  gown,  and  even  on  the  handle  of  my  parasol.  He 
made  me  sit  at  his  feet  on  his  reclining  chair.  How  thin 
he  has  grown  !  And  his  eyes  look  larger  than  they  were 
and  very  bright,  and  his  hair  looks  uncared-for. 

But  he  looked  very  interesting,  and  since  he  has  asked 
me  to  do  so,  I  shall  go  to  see  him  often. 

The  Architect,  who  accompanied  us  downstairs,  asked  us 
to  do  so  also.  "  It  makes  Jules  so  happy,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  so 
great  a  pleasure  for  him  to  see  you  ;  I  assure  you  he  thinks 
you  have  a  great  deal  of  talent." 

I  write  all  these  details  about  the  reception  I  met  with, 
because  it  made  me  very  happy. 

But  the  feeling  I  have  for  him  is  a  maternal  one,  very 
calm  and  very  tender,  and  one  of  which  I  feel  proud,  as  if 
it  conferred  a  new  dignity  upon  me.  He  will  recover  from 
this,  I  am  sure. 

Monday,  June  30.— I  could  scarcely  keep  from  cutting 


410  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

my  painting  to  pieces  to-day.  There  is  not  an  inch  of  it 
painted  to  please  me. 

And  one  of  the  hands  is  still  to  be  done  !  But  when  this 
hand  is  done  there  will  be  only  so  much  the  more  to  be 
undone  !  Ah,  misery  ! 

And  it  has  cost  me  three  months — three  months  ! 

I  have  been  amusing  myself  painting  a  basket  of  straw- 
berries such  as  were  never  before  seen.  I  gathered  them 
myself,  picking  a  few  green  ones  also,  for  the  sake  of 
the  color. 

And  such  leaves  !  In  short,  wonderful  strawberries, 
gathered  by  an  artist,  with  the  delicate  touch  and  coquettish 
air  of  one  engaged  in  an  unaccustomed  occupation. 

And  among  them  is  a  branch  of  red  gooseberries. 

I  walked  with  them  through  the  streets  of  Sevres,  and 
in  the  railway  coach  I  held  the  basket  in  my  lap,  taking 
care  to  keep  it  slightly  raised,  so  that  the  air  might  pass 
beneath,  and  prevent  the  heat  of  my  dress  from  spoiling 
the  strawberries,  not  one  of  which  had  a  speck  or  spot  on  it. 

Rosalie  laughed  :  "  If  any  of  those  at  home  were  only  to 
see  you  now,  mademoiselle  !  "  she  said. 

"  Could  this  be  possible  ?  "     I  thought. 

"  But  then,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  his  painting,  which 
deserves  it,  "  not  for  his  face,  which  does  not.  There  is 
nothing  however,  which  his  painting  does  not  deserve." 

"  Then  it  is  his  painting  that  will  eat  the  strawberries?  " 

Tuesday,  July  i. — Still  at  that  odious  Sevres  !  But  I 
got  home  in  good  time,  before  five  o'clock.  My  picture  is 
almost  finished. 

I  am  in  the  deepest  dejection,  however.  Everything 
goes  wrong  with  me.  It  would  be  necessary  that  some 
great  event  should  take  place  in  order  to  dispel  this  gloom. 

And  I,  who  do  not  believe  in  a  God,  have  fixed  my  hopes 
upon  God, 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASnKIRTSI.il-.  411 

Formerly,  after  these  fits  of  depression  something  would 
always  occur  to  bring  me  back  to  an  interest  in  life. 

My  God,  why  hast  thou  given  me  the  power  to 
reason?  It  would  make  me  so  happy  if  I  could  but 
believe  blindly. 

I  believe  and  I  do  not  believe.  When  I  reason  I  no 
longer  believe.  But  in  moments  of  extreme  joy  or  extreme 
wretchedness  my  first  thought  is  always  of  that  God  who  is 
so  cruel  to  me. 

Wednesday,  July  2. — We  went  to  see  Jules  Bastien  to- 
day— this  time  to  his  studio.  I  really  think  he  is  growing 
better.  His  mother  was  there.  She  is  a  woman  of  about 
sixty,  and  she  looks  to  be  forty-five  or  fifty  ;  she  is  much 
better  looking  than  her  picture.  Her  hair  is  of  a  pretty 
blonde  color,  with  here  and  there  a  silver  thread  or  two. 
Her  smile  reveals  goodness  of  heart ;  and  with  her  black 
and  white  gown  she  presents  quite  a  pleasing  appearance. 
She  embroiders  with  skill  from  designs  of  her  own. 

The  two  upper  front  teeth  of  Bastien-Lepage  are  far 
apart  like  mine. 

Thursday. — I  went  to  see  Potain  this  morning  at  about 
seven  o'clock.  He  made  a  superficial  examination  and  or- 
dered me  to  Eaux-Bonnes.  Afterward  he  will  see,  he  says. 
But  I  have  read  the  letter  which  he  gave  me  for  his  col- 
league. In  it  he  says  that  the  upper  part  of  the  right  lung 
is  gone,  and  that  I  am  the.  most  unmanageable  and  impru- 
dent patient  he  has  ever  had. 

Afterward,  as  it  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock,  I  went  to  see 
the  little  doctor  of  the  Rue  de  la  Echiquier.  He  impressed 
me  as  being  a  very  serious  person  ;  he  appeared  disagree- 
ably surprised  by  my  condition,  and  insisted  strongly  that 
I  should  consult  some  of  the  shining  lights  in  the  profession, 
Bouchard  or  Grancher,  for  instance. 


41*  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.         [1884. 

As  I  at  first  refused  to  do  this,  he  offered  to  accompany 
me,  and  I  at  last  consented. 

Potain  pretends  that  my  lungs  have  been  in  worse  con- 
dition than  they  are  at  present,  but  that  an  unexpected  im- 
provement took  place  in  them,  and  that  the  old  trouble  has 
now  returned,  but  will  soon  pass  away  again. 

And  Potain  is  such  an  optimist  that  when  he  speaks  thus 
I  must  be  in  a  very  bad  way  indeed. 

Little  B ,  however,  is  not  of  this  opinion  ;  he  says 

that  my  disease  had  indeed  at  one  time  assumed  a  more 
serious  form  than  it  now  presents,  but  that  the  attack  was 
an  acute  one  which  they  thought  would  carry  me  off  sud- 
denly ;  this  did  not  happen,  and  that  is  the  improvement 
that  has  taken  place.  The  chronic  trouble,  however,  has 
now  become  aggravated  ;  in  short,  he  insists  on  my  seeing 
Grancher. 

I  will  do  so. 

So,  then,  I  have  consumption  ! 

That,  and  everything  else.  The  prospect  is  not  very 
encouraging. 

And  nothing  to  console  me  in  the  least  for  all  this. 

Friday,  July  4. — The  Sevres  picture  is  here  in  my  stu- 
dio. I  might  call  it  "  April."  The  name  is  of  little  con- 
sequence, however,  if  the  picture  itself  were  only  good, 
which  it  is  not. 

The  green  of  the  background  is  at  once  both  bright  and 
muddy,  and  the  figure  of  the  girl  herself  is  not  in  the  least 
like  what  I  had  intended  it  to  be. 

I  have  hurried  through  with  it  as  it  was,  without  waiting 
to  make  it  better,  but  there  is  nothing  of  the  sentiment  I 
had  intended  in  the  picture — nothing  at  all.  In  short,  it  is 
three  months  thrown  away. 

Saturday,  July  5. — I  have  a  charming  new  gray  linen 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASI1KIRTSEFF.  413 

gown  ;  the  waist  is  a  blouse,  without  any  trimming  except 
the  lace  around  the  neck  and  sleeves.  The  hat  is  an  ideal 
one  ;  it  is  trimmed  with  a  large  and  coquettish-looking  bow 
of  antique  lace.  It  was  so  becoming  to  me  that  I  thought 
of  going  to  the  Rue  Legendre  ;  only  I  feared  it  might  seem 
as  if  I  went  there  too  often.  And  yet  why  should  I  think 
so?  I  go  there  simply  as  a  fellow-artist,  an  admirer,  to 
help  to  make  the  time  pass  pleasantly  for  him  whileihe  is 
so  ill. 

We  went  there,  accordingly.  His  mother  was  delighted 
to  see  us  ;  she  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  I  had 
beautiful  hair.  The  Architect  is  still  downcast,  but  the 
great  painter  is  a  little  better. 

He  ate  his  soup  and  his  egg  before  us.  His  mother  runs 
for  whatever  he  wants,  and  waits  on  him  herself  so  that  the 
servant  may  not  have  to  come  in.  And  he  takes  it  all  quite 
naturally  and  accepts  our  services  with  the  greatest  sang- 
froid, without  manifesting  the  least  surprise.  Some  one  in 
speaking  of  his  appearance  said  that  he  ought  to  have  his 
hair  cut,  and  mamma  mentioned  that  she  used  to  cut  her 
son's  hair  when  he  was  a  child,  and  her  father's  when  he 
was  sick.  "  Would  you  like  me  to  cut  yours  ? "  she  added  ; 
"  I  have  a  lucky  hand." 

We  all  laughed,  but  he  consented  immediately ;  his 
mother  ran  to  bring  a  peignoir  and  mamma  set  to  work  at 
once,  and  succeeded  very  creditably  in  her  task. 

I  wanted  to  have  a  hand  in  it,  also,  but  the  stupid  fellow 
said  I  should  be  sure  to  commit  some  folly  ;  I  revenged 
myself  by  comparing  him  to  Samson  in  the  hands  of  Dalilah. 
That  will  be  my  next  picture  ! 

He  condescended  to  smile  at  this. 

•  His  brother,  emboldened  by  his  good-humor,  proposed  to 
cut  his  beard  also,  which  he  did  slowly  and  solemnly,  his 
hands  trembling  slightly  while  he  did  it. 

This  altered  the  expression  of  his  face  completely;  it  took 


4*4  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

away  the  sickly  look  it  had  before  worn  ;  his  mother  gave 
little  cries  of  joy  when  she  saw  him.  "  Now  I  see  my  boy 
again,"  she  said,  "  my  dear  little  boy,  my  dear  child  ! " 

She  is  an  excellent  woman — so  amiable  and  unaffected  ; 
and   then  she  has  the  greatest  admiration  for  her  distin- 
guished son. 
'  They  are  very  worthy  people. 

Monday,  July  14. — I  have  commenced  the  treatment 
which  is  to  cure  me.  And  I  am  perfectly  tranquil  concern- 
ing the  result. 

Even  the  prospects  in  regard  to  my  painting  seem 
better. 

What  opportunities  for  study  does  the  Boulevard  des 
Batignolles,  or  even  the  Avenue  Wagram,  present  to  the 
artist ! 

Have  you  ever  watched  the  faces  of  the  people  who 
frequent  those  streets  ? 

With  each  one  of  the  benches  one  may  connect  some 
tragedy  or  some  romance.  See  the  social  outcast,  as  he  sits 
there,  one  arm  leaning  on  the  back  of  the  seat,  the  other 
resting  on  his  knee,  looking  around  him  with  furtive  glance; 
the  woman  with  her  child  seated  in  her  lap  ;  the  busy,  bust- 
ling woman,  sitting  down  to  take  a  moment's  rest ;  the 
grocer's  boy  reading  his  little  newspaper,  as  if  he  had  not  a 
care  in  the  world  ;  the  workman  fallen  asleep  in  his  seat  ; 
the  philosophic  or  the  hopeless  man  silently  smoking.  Per- 
haps I  let  my  imagination  run  away  with  me,  but  look  at 
all  this  any  day  at  five  or  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and 
judge  for  yourselves. 

Yes,  that  is  it ! 

I  think  I  have  found  a  subject  for  my  picture. 

Yes,  yes,  yes !  I  may  not  be  able  to  execute  it,  but  I  am 
quite  satisfied  as  to  the  subject.  I  could  dance  for  joy. 

How  differently  do  we  feel  at  different  times  ! 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  415 

Sometimes  life  seems  a  void,  and  sometimes— I  begin  to 
take  an  interest  in  everything  again— in  all  my  surroundings. 

It  is  as  if  a  sudden  flood  of  life  had  come  into  my  soul. 

And  yet  there  is  nothing  to  rejoice  about. 

So  much  the  worse  ;  then  I  shall  find  something  to  cheer 
and  please  me  even  in  the  thought  of  my  death. 

Nature  intended  me  to  be  happy,  but, 

Pourquoi  dans  ton  ceuvre  celeste 
Tant  d'  elements  si  peu  d'accord  ? 

Tuesday^  July  15. — Every  time  I  see  people  sitting  on 
the  benches  in  the  public  parks  or  streets  an  old  idea  of 
mine  occurs  to  me — that  here  are  to  be  found  splendid 
opportunities  for  the  study  of  art.  It  is  always  better  to 
paint  scenes  in  which  the  characters  are  in  repose,  than 
scenes  of  action.  Let  it  not  be  thought  that  I  am  opposed 
to  action  in  painting,  but  in  scenes  where  violent  action  is 
represented  there  can  be  neither  illusion  nor  pleasure  for 
persons  of  refined  tastes.  One  is  painfully  impressed 
(though  one  may  not  be  conscious  of  the  fact)  by  this  arm 
which  is  raised  to  strike,  but  which  does  not  strike,  by  these 
legs  depicted  in  the  act  of  running,  and  which  remain 
always  in  the  same  position.  There  are  violent  situations, 
however,  in  which  one  can  imagine  the  actors  as  for  an 
instant  motionless,  and  for  the  purposes  of  art  an  instant  is 
sufficient. 

It  is  always  preferable  to  seize  the  instant  following  a 
violent  action  rather  than  the  one  preceding  it.  The  "  Jeanne 
d'Arc"  of  Bastien-Lepage  has  heard  mysterious  voices  ;  she 
hurries  forward,  overturning  her  spinning-wheel  in  her 
haste,  and  stops  suddenly  to  lean  against  a  tree.  But  in 
scenes  where  the  arm  is  raised  to  strike,  in  which  action  is 
portrayed,  the  artistic  enjoyment  is  never  complete. 

Take  the  "  Distribution  of  Flags  by  the  Emperor  at 
Versailles." 


41 6  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

Every  one  is  rushing  forward  with  arms  raised  ;  and  yet 
the  action  does  not  shock  the  artistic  sense,  because  the 
figures  are  depicted  during  a  moment  of  expectation,  and 
we  are  ourselves  moved  and  carried  away  by  the  emotion  of 
these  men  ;  we  share  in  their  impatience.  The  spirit  and 
force  of  the  painting  are  prodigious,  precisely  because  it  is 
possible  to  imagine  an  instant  during  which  the  action  is 
arrested — an  instant  during  which  we  can  tranquilly  con- 
template this  scene,  as  if  it  were  a  real  scene  and  not  a 
painting. 

But  action,  whether  in  sculpture  or  in  painting,  is  never 
capable  of  the  same  sublimity  of  treatment  as  repose. 

Compare  the  pictures  of  Millet  with  the  most  powerfully 
treated  scenes  of  action  you  are  acquainted  with. 

See  the  "Moses  "  of  Michael  Angelo  ;  he  is  motionless,  but 
he  is  alive.  His  "  Penseroso  "  neither  moves  nor  speaks,  but 
this  is  because  he  wills  it  to  be  so.  He  is  a  living  man  who 
is  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections. 

The  "  Pas-meche  "  of  Bastien-Lepage  looks  at  you  and  you 
listen  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak,  because  he  lives.  In 
Lepage's  "  Foins  "  the  man  lying  on  his  back,  his  face  covered 
with  his  hat,  sleeps  ;  but  he  is  alive  !  The  woman  sitting 
down  is  in  a  revery,  and  is  motionless,  but  we  feel  that  she 
is  living. 

No  scene  can  satisfy  the  artistic  sense  completely  but 
one  in  which  the  characters  are  in  repose.  This  gives  us 
time  to  grasp  its  beauties,  to  possess  ourselves  of  its  mean- 
ing, to  endow  it  in  our  imagination  with  life. 

Ignorant  or  stupid  people  think  scenes  of  repose  more 
easy  to  paint  than  scenes  of  action. 

When  I  die  my  death  will  be  caused  by  indignation  at 
the  stupidity  of  human  nature,  which,  as  Flaubert  says,  has 
no  limit. 

During  the  past  twenty  years  Russia  has  produced  admir- 
able works  in  literature. 


1 884.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  417 

In  reading  Count  Tolstoi's  "  Peace  and  War,"  I  was  so 
impressed  by  this  fact  as  to  exclaim  involuntarily,  "  Why, 
this  is  equal  to  Zola  !  " 

And  this  is  true.  There  is  an  article  in  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  to-day  devoted  to  our  Tolstoi,  and  my  heart, 
as  a  Russian,  leaped  for  joy  when  I  read  it.  It  is  by  M.  de 
Vogue,  who  was  Secretary  of  the  French  Embassy  in  Rus- 
sia. He  has  made  a  study  of  our  literature  and  manners, 
and  has  already  published  several  remarkably  just  and  pro- 
found articles  on  this  great  and  wonderful  country  of  mine. 

And  I,  wretch  that  I  am— I  live  in  France  ;  I  prefer  to  be 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  to  living  in  my  own  country  ! 

Since  I  Love  my  country — the  beautiful,  the  great,  the 
glorious  Russia — I  ought  to  go  there  to  live. 

But  I,  too,  labor  for  the  glory  of  my  country— though  I 
may  never  become  a  celebrated  genius  like  Tolstoi ! 

But  if  it  were  not  for  my  painting,  I  would  go  there  to 
live  ;  yes,  I  would  go  !  But  my  art  absorbs  all  my  facul- 
ties ;  everything  else  is  only  an  interlude,  an  amusement. 

Monday,  July  21. — I  walked  for  more  than  four  hours  to- 
day in  search  of  a  background  for  my  picture  ;  it  is  to  be  a 
street,  but  I  have  not  yet  fixed  on  the  particular  spot. 

It  is  evident  that  a  public  seat  on  a  boulevard  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city  is  very  different  from  a  seat  in  theChamps- 
Klysees,  where  porters,  grooms,  nurses,  and  idlers  sit. 

Here  there  is  no  field  for  the  artist ;  here  there  is  no 
soul,  no  romance.  With  the  exception  of  some  particular 
case  these  people  are  nothing  more  than  human  machines. 

But  the  outcast  who  sits  on  the  edge  of  yonder  bench, 
how  he  appeals  to  the  imagination  !  That  is  the  real  man — 
a  man  such  as  Shakspeare  might  have  portrayed. 

Now  that  I  have  discovered  this  treasure  I  am  possessed 
by  an  unreasoning  dread  lest  it  should  escape  from  me 
before  I  can  fix  it  on  canvas.  What  if  the  weather  should 


418  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.         [1884. 

not  prove  propitious,  or  if  it  should  be  beyond  my  powers 
of  execution  ? 

Well,  if  I  have  no  genius,  then  Heaven  has  chosen  to 
mock  me  ;  for  it  inflicts  upon  me  all  the  tortures  that  a 
genius  could  suffer — Alas  ! 

Wednesday,  July  23. — My  picture  is  sketched  in, — my 
models  have  been  found.  I  have  been  running  about  since 
five  o'clock  this  morning — to  Villette  and  to  Batignolles  ; 
Rosalie  spoke  to  the  various  people  I  pointed  out  to  her. 

The  whole  affair  is  neither  very  easy  nor  very  pleasant. 

Friday,  August  i. — When  I  treat  you  to  moving  phrases 
you  must  not  allow  yourselves  to  be  too  much  affected  by 
them.  .  .  . 

Shall  I  ever  know  what  it  is  to  love  ? 

For  my  own  part  I  think  love — impossible — to  one  who 
looks  at  human  nature  through  a  microscope,  as  I  do. 
They  who  see  only  what  they  wish  to  see  in  those  around 
them  are  very  fortunate. 

Shall  I  tell  you  something  ?  Well,  I  am  neither  an  ar- 
tist, nor  a  sculptor,  nor  a  musician  ;  neither  woman,  girl, 
nor  friend.  My  only  purpose  in  life  is  to  observe,  to  reflect, 
and  to  analyze. 

A  glance,  a  face  I  see  by  chance,  a  sound,  a  pleasure,  a 
pain,  is  at  once  weighed,  examined,  verified,  classified,  noted. 
And  not  until  this  is  accomplished  is  my  mind  at  rest. 

Saturday,  August  2. — Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday, 
Friday — five  days,  and  my  picture  is  finished.  Claire  and 
I  commenced  on  the  same  day,  with  the  same  subject,  on  a 
canvas  3  ft.  4  x  3  ft.  3 — a  picture  of  some  size,  as  you  see — La 
Bievre,  immortalized  in  his  verse  by  Victor  Hugo;  in  the 
background  is  a  farmhouse  ;  in  the  foreground  a  young 
girl  sits  by  the  river-side  talking  to  a  youth  who  stands  on 
the  opposite  bank. 


1884.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BAStlk'IRTSEFF.  419 

And  is  the  picture  a  good  one  ?  There  is  something  too 
hackneyed  in  the  sentiment  of  the  composition  for  this  to 
be  the  case,  and  then  I  wished  to  finish  it  quickly.  It  is 
amusing  to  hear  them  criticise  it ;  one  says,  "What  a  pretty 
scene  !  "  Another  says  the  picture  has  no  merit  whatever, 
and  yet  another,  "  It  is  very  good  indeed ;  a  really  pretty 
painting  !  "  Claire  has  not  yet  finished  hers. 

Good  heavens  !  how  many  things  there  are  that  shock 
me  !  Almost  all  true  artists  are  like  me  in  this  respect. 

I  wonder  at  people  who  can  eat  great  pieces  of  raw  fat 
mutton. 

I  wonder  at  those  fortunate  people  who  can  swallow 
raspberries  whole,  without  minding  the  little  insects  that 
are  almost  always  to  be  found  in  them. 

As  for  me,  I  must  first  examine  them  closely,  so  that  tlu 
pleasure  of  eating  them  does  not  pay  me  for  the  trouble. 

I  wonder  at  people  who  can  eat  all  sorts  of  hashes  and 
stews,  without  knowing  what  they  are  composed  of. 

I  wonder  at,  or  rather  I  envy,  simple,  healthy,  common, 
place  natures,  in  short. 

Thursday,  August  7. — We  have  sent  a  little  ice-box  to  the, 
Rue  Legendre  ;  he  wished  to  have  one  that  might  stand 
near  his  bed. 

I  only  hope  he  may  not  think  we  are  paying  him  all  these 
attentions  in  order  to  get  one  of  his  pictures  for  a  mere 
song  ! 

My  picture  is  sketched  in  colors.  But  I  do  not  feel 
very  strong.  I  find  it  necessary  to  lie  down  and  rest  very 
frequently,  and  when  I  get  up  again  I  am  so  dizzy  that  for 
some  moments  I  can  scarcely  see.  At  last,  at  about  five 
o'clock  I  was  obliged  to  leave  my  work,  and  go  for  a  turn 
in  the  deserted  walks  of  the  Bois. ' 

Monday,  August  n. — I  left  the  house  at  five  this  morn- 


420  JOURNAL  OP  MARIE  SASttKlKTSEFF.         [1884. 

ing  to  make  a  sketch  for  my  picture,  but  there  were  so 
many  people  in  the  streets  already  that  I  was  compelled  to 
return  home  furious.  No  less  than  twenty  persons  had 
gathered  around  the  carriage,  although  it  remained  closed. 

I  drove  through  the  streets  again  in  the  afternoon,  but 
succeeded  no  better. 

I  went  to  the  Bois. 

Tuesday,  Aug.  12. — In  short,  my  friends,  all  this  means 
that  I  am  ill.  I  still  struggle  against  the  feeling,  and  try  to 
drag  myself  about,  but  I  thought  this  morning  that  I  should 
at  last  have  to  succumb — that  is  to  say,  lie  down  and  give  up 
work.  But  suddenly  i  felt  a  little  stronger,  and  I  went  out 
again  in  search  of  some  hints  for  my  picture.  My  weak- 
ness, and  the  preoccupation  of  my  thoughts,  keep  me  apart 
from  the  real  world,  which,  however,  I  have  never  seen  so 
clearly  as  I  do  now.  All  its  baseness,  all  its  meanness, 
stand  out  before  my  mind  with  saddening  distinctness. 

Foreigner  though  I  be — not  to  speak  of  my  youth  and 
my  ignorance — I  find  passages  to  criticise  in  the  writings  of 
the  best  authors  and  poets.  As  for  the  newspapers,  I  can- 
not read  half  a  dozen  lines  in  one  of  them  without  throwing 
it  aside  in  disgust,  not  only  because  of  the  style,  which  is 
that  of  a  scullion,  but  because  of  the  sentiments  expressed. 
There  is  no  honesty  in  them.  Every  article  is  either  written 
to  serve  a  purpose,  or  is  paid  for. 

There  is  neither  good  faith  nor  sincerity  to  be  found  any- 
where. 

And  what  is  to  be  said  of  men,  who  call  themselves  men 
of  honor,  who  will  deliberately  falsify  the  truth  through 
party  spirit? 

It  is  disgusting. 

We  came  home  to  dine'after  leaving  Bastien,  who  is  still 
in  bed,  though  his  eyes  are  bright  and  he  seems  to  be  free 
from  pain.  He  has  gray  eyes,  the  exquisite  charm  of  which 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  421 

vulgar  souls  cannot  be  expected  to  appreciate.  Do  you  un- 
derstand what  I  mean  by  this?  Eyes  that  have  looked  into 
the  eyes  of  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

We  spoke  of  the  picture,  and  he  complained  of  not 
being  sufficiently  appreciated.  I  told  him  he  was  appre- 
ciated by  those  who  had  souls  to  understand  him,  and  that 
"Jeanne  d'Arc"  was  a  work  which  people  admired  more  than 
they  dared  say  to  his  face. 

Saturday,  August  16. — This  is  the  first  day  I  have  been 
really  able  to  work  in  the  fiacre,  and  I  came  home  with  such 
a  pain  in  my  back  that  I  was  obliged  to  have  it  bathed  and 
rubbed. 

But  how  well  I  feel  now !  The  Architect  put  my  paint- 
ing in  place  this  morning.  His  brother  is  better.  He  went 
for  an  airing  to  the  Bois  to-day.  They  carried  him  down- 
stairs in  an  easy-chair.  Felix  told  me  this  when  he  came 
for  some  milk  this  afternoon. 

For  a  week  past  Bastien  has  been  drinking  goat's  milk — 
the  milk  of  our  goat.  Imagine  the  joy  of  our  people.  But 
this  is  not  all.  He  condescends  to  be  so  friendly  with  us 
that  he  sends  for  it  himself  whenever  he  has  a  fancy  for  it. 
This  is  delightful. 

He  will  soon  be  lost  to  us  then,  since  he  is  growing 
better.  Yes,  our  good  times  are  coming  to  an  end.  One 
cannot  go  visit  a  man  who  is  well  enough  to  go  out. 

But  I  must  not  exaggerate  things.  He  went  to  the  Bois, 
but  he  was  carried  there  in  an  easy-chair,  and  he  went  back 
to  bed  again  on  his  return  home.  That  does  not  mean  that 
he  is  well  enough  to  go  out. 

Tuesday,  August  19. — I  was  so  exhausted  that  I  had 
scarcely  strength  enough  to  put  on  a  linen  gown  and  go  to 
see  Bastien.  His  mother  received  us  with  reproaches. 
Three  days!  she  said,  three  days  without  coming  to  see 


422  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

him !  It  was  dreadful !  And  when  we  were  in  his  room 
Emile  cried  out:  "All  is  ended,  then?  We  are  friends  no 
longer?"  "So,  then,  you  have  deserted  me?"  said  he 
himself.  Ah,  I  ought  not  to  have  stayed  away  so  long. 

My  vanity  tempts  me  to  repeat  here  all  his  friendly 
reproaches,  and  his  assurances  that  never,  never,  never 
could  we  come  too  often. 

Thursday,  August  21. — I  do  nothing  but  lounge  about  all 
day,  except  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  morning — from 
five  to  seven — when  I  work  out-of-doors  in  a  carriage. 

I  have  had  a  photograph  taken  of  the  scene  I  have  chosen 
for  my  picture,  so  as  to  be  able  to  copy  with  exactness  the 
lines  of  the  sidewalk. 

This  was  done  at  seven  this  morning  ;  the  Architect  was 
there  at  six.  Afterwards  we  all  drove  home,  I,  Rosalie,  the 
Architect,  Coco,  and  the  photograph. 

Not  that  the  presence  of  the  brother  was  at  all  necessary, 
but  it  was  pleasant  to  have  him  with  us.  I  always  like  to 
have  a  guard  of  honor  around  me. 

All  is  over !     He  is  doomed ! 

Baude,  who  spent  the  evening  here  with  the  Architect, 
told  it  to  mamma. 

Baude  is  his  most  intimate  friend — the  one  to  whom  he 
wrote  the  letter  from  Algiers  that  I  read. 

All  is  over,  then. 

Can  it  be  possible? 

I  cannot  yet  realize  what  will  be  the  effect  of  this  crush- 
ing news  upon  me. 

This  is  a  new  sensation — to  see  a  man  who  is  under  sen- 
tence of  death. 

Tuesday,  August  26. — All  the  confused  thoughts  that 
have  filled  my  brain  and  distracted  my  mind  have  now  set- 
tled immovably  around  this  new  misfortune. 


i3S4  ]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.  423 

It  is  a  new  experience — to  see  a  man,  a  great  painter — to 
see  him,  in  short — 

Condemned  to  die  ! 

This  is  something  not  to  be  lightly  spoken  of. 

And  every  day,  until  the  day  arrives,  I  shall  be  thinking, 
"He  is  dying!" 

It  is  horrible! 

I  have  summoned  all  my  courage,  and  now  I  stand,  with 
head  erect,  ready  to  receive  the  blow. 

Has  it  not  been  thus  with  me  all  my  life? 

When  the  blow  comes  I  shall  receive  it  without  flinching. 

At  times  I  refuse  to  believe  it,  I  rebel  against  it;  I  give 
way  to  lamentations,  when  I  know  that  all  is  ended. 

I  cannot  utter  two  sentences  connectedly. 

But  do  not  imagine  that  I  am  overwhelmed ;  I  am  only 
profoundly  engrossed  by  the  thoughts  of  how  it  will  be  with 
me — afterward. 

Saturday,  August  30. — It  seems  that  matters  are  growing 
worse.  I  am  unable  to  do  anything.  I  have  done  nothing 
since  the  Sevres  picture  was  finished — nothing,  that  is  to 
say,  except  two  miserable  panels. 

I  sleep  for  hours  at  a  time  in  the  broad  daylight.  I  have 
finished  the  sketch  for  my  picture,  but  it  is  laughable! 

The  canvas  is  there;  everything  is  ready,  I  alone  am 
wanting. 

If  I  were  to  write  here  all  I  feel! — the  terrible  fears  that 
assail  me!  — 

September  is  here  now,  winter  is  not  far  distant. 

The  slightest  cold  might  confine  me  to  bed  for  a  couple  of 
months,  and  then,  the  convalescence — 

And  my  picture!  So  that  I  should  have  sacrificed  every- 
thing without — 

Now  is  the  moment  to  believe  in  God  and  to  pray  to  Him. 

Yes,  the  fear  of  falling  ill  is  what  paralyzes  me;  in  the 


424  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.          [1884. 

state  in  which  I  am,  a  heavy  cold  would  put  an  end  to  me 
in  six  weeks. 

And  that  is  how  I  shall  die  at  last. 

For  I  am  resolved  to  work  at  my  picture  in  any  case — 
and,  as  the  weather  will  be  cold — and  if  I  do  not  take  cold 
working,  I  shall  take  cold  walking;  how  many  people  there 
are  who  do  not  paint ;  and  who  die  all  the  same — 

Here  it  is  at  last,  then,  the  end  of  all  my  miseries !  So 
many  aspirations,  so  many  hopes,  so  many  plans — to  die  at 
twenty-four,  on  the  threshold  of  everything. 

I  knew  that  this  would  be  so.  Since  God  could  not 
grant  me  all  that  was  necessary  to  my  life,  without  ceasing 
to  be  just,  He  will  let  me  die.  There  are  so  many  years 
in  a  lifetime,  so  many — and  I  have  lived  so  few— and 
accomplished  nothing! 

Wednesday,  September  3. — I  am  making  the  design  for  the 
Figaro,  but  I  am  obliged  to  leave  off  work  from  time  to  time, 
to  rest  for  an  hour  or  so.  I  have  a  constant  fever.  I  can 
obtain  no  relief.  I  have  never  before  been  so  ill  as  I  am 
now,  but  I  say  nothing  of  it  to  any  one;  I  go  out,  I  paint. 
What  need  of  further  words?  I  am  sick,  let  that  suffice. 
Will  talking  about  it  do  any  good?  But  going  out  is  an- 
other thing,  you  will  say. 

It  is  a  disease  that  permits  of  doing  that  in  the  intervals 
of  comparative  ease. 

Thursday,  September  n. — On  Tuesday  I  began  a  study  in 
the  nude,  of  a  child.  It  might  make  a  very  good  picture  if 
well  treated. 

The  Architect  was  here  yesterday;  his  brother  desires  to 
know  why  we  have  neglected  him  for  so  many  days.  So 
we  went  to  the  Bois  in  the  afternoon,  hoping  to  see  him, 
but  we  arrived  late ;  he  was  taking  his  usual  turn  through 
the  walks ;  we  waited  for  him,  and  you  should  have  seen 


1884.]        JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  B A SHKIRTSBFF.  425 

the  surprise  of  all  three  to  find  us  there.  He  grasped  both 
my  hands  in  his,  and  when  we  were  going  home  he  took  a 
seat  incur  carriage,  while  my  aunt  returned  with  his  mother. 
It  is  as  well  to  get  into  this  habit. 

Saturday,  September  13. — We  are  friends;  he  likes  me; 
he  esteems  me ;  he  finds  me  interesting.  He  said  yester- 
day that  I  was  wrong  to  torment  myself  as  I  do;  that  I 
should  consider  myself  very  fortunate.  There  is  not  an- 
other woman,  he  says,  who  has  accomplished  as  much  as  I 
have  done  in  as  short  a  time. 

"You  have  a  name, "  he  added;  "every  one  knows  who 
Mile.  Bashkirtseff  is.  There  is  no  doubt  about  your  suc- 
cess. But  as  for  you,  you  would  like  to  send  a  picture 
every  six  months  to  the  Salon ;  you  are  impatient  to  reach 
the  goal.  But  that  is  quite  natural,  when  one  is  ambitious; 
I  have  passed  through  all  that  myself." 

And  to-day  he  said:  "They  see  me  driving  with  you;  it 
is  fortunate  that  I  am  sick,  or  they  might  accuse  me  of 
painting  your  picture." 

"They  have  done  that  already,"  responded  the  Architect. 

"Not  in  the  papers!" 

"Oh,  no." 

Wednesday,  September  17. — Few  days  pass  in  which  I 
am  not  tormented  by  the  recollection  of  my  father.  I  ought 
to  have  gone  to  him  and  nursed  him  during  his  last  illness. 
He  made  no  complaint,  for  his  nature  was  like  mine,  but 
my  neglect  must  have  made  him  suffer  cruelly.  Why  did  I 
not  go? 

It  is  since  Bastien-Lepage  has  come  back — since  we  have 
visited  him  so  often  and  shown  him  so  many  little  atten- 
tions, given  him  so  many  marks  of  our  affection — that  I  feel 
this  especially. 

In  mamma's  case  it  was  different,  they  had  lived  apart 


426  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

for  so  many  years — until  within  five  of  his  death — but  I,  his 
daughter! 

It  is  just,  then,  that  God  should  punish  me.  But  if  we 
go  to  the  root  of  the  matter,  we  owe  our  parents  no  duty,  if 
they  have  not  protected  us  and  cared  for  us  from  our 
entrance  into  the  world. 

But  that  does  not  prevent — but  I  have  no  time  to  analyze 
the  question. — Bastien-Lepage  causes  me  to  feel  remorse. 
This  is  a  chastisement  from  God.  But  if  I  do  not  believe 
in  God?  I  scarcely  know  whether  I  do  or  not,  but  even  if 
I  did  not,  I  still  have  my  conscience,  and  my  conscience 
reproaches  me  for  my  neglect. 

And  one  cannot  say  absolutely,  "I  do  not  believe  in 
God."  That  depends  on  what  we  understand  by  the  word 
God.  If  the  God  we  desire  to  believe  in,  the  God  who 
loves  us,  existed,  the  world  would  not  be  what  it  is. 

Though  there  be  no  God  to  hear  my  evening  prayer,  yet 
I  pray  to  Him  every  night  in  despite  of  my  reason. 

"  Si  le  del  est  desert,  nous  n'offensons  personne, 
Si  quelqu'un  nous  entend,  qu'il  nous  prenne  en  pitie." 

Yet  how  believe? 

Bastien-Lepage  continues  very  ill;  we  found  him  in  the 
Bois,  writhing  with  pain ;  none  of  the  doctors  have  been 
able  to  relieve  him ;  it  would  be  well  to  bring  Charcot  to 
see  him  some  day  as  if  by  chance.  When  we  were  alone 
Bastien  said  it  was  abominable  to  have  neglected  him  for 
two  whole  days. 

Thursday,  September  18. — I  have  just  seen  Julian!  I 
have  missed  him  indeed,  but  it  was  so  long  since  we  had 
seen  each  other  that  we  had  but  little  to  say.  He  thought 
I  had  a  successful  and  contented  look.  There  is  nothing, 
after  all,  but  art ;  nothing  else  is  worth  a  thought. 

The  whole  family  are  with  Bastien-Lepage,  his  sisters  as 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  HAMIKIRTSEFF.  427 

well  as  his  mother ;  they  are  to  remain  with  him  until  the 
end ;  they  seem  to  be  good  women,  though  garrulous. 

That  tyrant  of  a  Bastien-Lepage  will  insist  upon  my  tak- 
ing care  of  myself:  he  wants  me  to  be  rid  of  my  cold  in  a 
month ;  he  buttons  my  jacket  for  me,  and  is  always  care- 
ful to  see  that  I  am  warmly  clad. 

Once  when  they  were  all  sitting  on  the  left  side  of  his 
bed,  as  usual,  and  I  had  seated  myself  on  the  right,  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  others,  settled  himself  comfortably, 
and  began  to  chat  with  me  softly  about  art. 

Yes,  he  certainly  has  a  feeling  of  friendship  for  me — of 
selfish  friendship,  even.  When  I  said  to  him  that  I  was 
going  to  resume  work  again  to-morrow,  he  answered: 

"Oh,  not  yet,  you  must  not  desert  me.'" 

Friday,  September  19. — He  continues  to  grow  worse; 
we  scarcely  know  what  to  do — whether  to  remain  in  the 
room  while  he  is  groaning  with  pain,  or  to  go  out. 

To  leave  the  room  would  look  as  if  we  thought  him  very 
ill ;  to  remain  would  seem  as  if  we  wished  to  be  spectators 
of  his  sufferings! 

It  seems  shocking  to  speak  in  this  way — as  if  I  were 
wanting  in  feeling.  It  seems  as  if  one  might  find  words 
more — that  is  to  say,  less. — Poor  fellow! 

Wednesday,  October  i. — Nothing  but  sorrow  and  annoy- 
ance! 

But  why  write  all  this  down  ? 

My  aunt  left  for  Russia  on  Monday;  she  will  arrive 
there  at  one  in  the  morning. 

Bastien-Lepage  goes  from  bad  to  worse. 

I  am  unable  to  work. 

My  picture  will  not  be  finished. 

Here  are  misfortunes  enough! 

He  is  dying,  and  he  suffers  intensely.     When  I  am  with 


428  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

him  I  feel  as  if  he  were  no  longer  of  this  earth;  he  already 
soars  above  us ;  there  are  days  when  I  feel  as  if  I  too  soared 
above  this  earth.  I  see  the  people  around  me;  they  speak 
to  me,  I  answer  them,  but  I  am  no  longer  of  them.  I  feel 
a  passive  indifference  to  everything — a  sensation  somewhat 
like  that  produced  by  opium. 

At  last  he  is  dying;  I  still  go  to  see  him,  but  only  from 
habit;  it  is  only  his  shadow  that  is  there:  I  myself  am 
hardly  more  than  a  shadow. 

He  is  scarcely  conscious  of  my  presence.  I  am  of  no  use 
to  him;  his  eyes  do  not  brighten  when  he  sees  me;  he  likes 
me  to  be  there,  that  is  all. 

Yes,  he  is  dying,  and  the  thought  does  not  move  me ;  I 
am  indifferent  to  it ;  something  is  fading  out  of  sight — that 
is  all. 

And  then  everything  will  be  ended. 

Everything  will  be  ended. 

I  shall  die  with  the  dying  year. 

Thursday,  October  9. — It  is  as  you  see — I  do  nothing. 
I  am  never  without  fever;  my  physicians  are  a  pair  of 
imbeciles.  I  have  sent  for  Potain  and  put  myself  into  his 
hands  again.  He  cured  me  once  before.  He  is  kind, 
attentive,  and  conscientious.  After  all,  it  seems  that  my 
emaciation,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  do  not  come  from  the 
lungs,  but  from  some  malady  I  contracted  without  knowing 
when,  and  to  which  I  paid  no  attention,  thinking  it  would 
go  away  of  itself;  as  for  my  lungs,  they  are  no  worse  than 
before. 

But  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  trouble  you  with  my 
ailments ;  what  is  certain,  however,  is  that  I  can  do  nothing. 

Nothing! 

Yesterday  I  went  to  dress  myself  to  go  to  the  Bois,  and 
twice  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  up,  I  was  so  overcome 
with  weakness. 


1884.]         JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHK1RTSEFF.  429 

I  succedeed  at  last;  however. 

Mme.  Bastien-Lepage  has  been  at  Damvillers  since  Mon- 
day last,  for  the  vintage,  and,  although  there  are  women 
enough  about  him,  he  was  glad  to  see  us. 

Sunday,  October  12. — I  have  not  been  able  to  go  out  for 
the  past  few  days.  I  am  very  ill,  although  I  am  not  con- 
fined to  bed. 

Potain  and  his  substitute  come  to  see  me  on  alternate 
days. 

Ah,  my  God!  and  my  picture,  my  picture,  my  picture? 

Julian  has  come  to  see  me.  They  have  told  him,  then, 
that  I  was  ill. 

Alas!  how  could  it  be  concealed?  And  how  shall  I  be 
able  to  go  see  Bastien-Lepage? 

Thursday^  October  16. — I  have  a  constant  fever  that  is 
sapping  my  strength.  I  spend  the  whole  day  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, going  from  the  easy-chair  to  the  sofa  and  back 
again. 

Dina  reads  novels  to  me.  Potain  came  yesterday,  and  is 
to  come  again  to-morrow.  This  man  is  no  longer  in  need 
of  money,  and  if  he  comes  to  see  me  so  often,  it  must  be 
because  he  takes  some  little  interest  in  me. 

I  cannot  leave  the  house  at  all,  but  poor  Bastien-Lepage 
is  still  able  to  go  out,  so  he  had  himself  brought  here  and 
installed  in  an  easy-chair,  his  feet  supported  by  cushions. 
I  was  by  his  side,  in  another  easy-chair,  and  sO  we  remained 
until  six  o'clock. 

I  was  dressed  in  a  white  plush  morning-gown,  trimmed 
with  white  lace,  but  of  a  different  shade;  Bastien-Lepage's 
eyes  dilated  with  pleasure  as  they  rested  on  me. 

"Ah,  if  I  could  only  paint!"  he  said. 

And  I!— 

There  is  an  end  to  this  year's  picture! 


43°  JOURNAL  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF.          [1884. 

Saturday,  October  18. — Bastien-Lepage  comes  almost 
every  day.  His  mother  has  returned,  and  all  three  came 
to-day. 

Potain  came  yesterday :   I  am  no  better. 

Sunday,  October  19. — Tony  and  Julian  are  to  dine  with 
us  to-night. 

Monday,  October  20. — Although  the  weather  is  magnifi- 
cient,  Bastien-Lepage  comes  here  instead  of  going  to  the 
Bois.  He  can  scarcely  walk  at  all  now ;  his  brother  sup- 
ports him  under  each  arm ;  he  almost  carries  him. 

By  the  time  he  is  seated  in  his  easy-chair  the  poor  fellow 
is  exhausted.  Woe  is  me !  And  how  many  porters  there 
are  who  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  ill!  Emile  is  an 
admirable  brother.  He  it  is  who  carries  Jules  on  his  shoul- 
ders up  and  down  their  three  flights  of  stairs.  Dina  is 
equally  devoted  to  me.  For  the  last  two  days  my  bed  has 
been  in  the  drawing-room,  but  as  this  is  very  large,  and 
divided  by  screens,  poufs,  and  the  piano,  it  is  not  noticed. 
I  find  it  too  difficult  to  go  upstairs. 


The  journal  stops  here — Marie  Bashkirtseff  died  eleven 
days  afterward,  on  the  3ist  of  October,  1884. 


A  VISIT  TO  MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF.* 

BY    FRANCOIS   COPP^E. 

LAST  winter  I  went  to  pay  my  respects  to  a  Russian  lady 
of  my  acquaintance  who  was  passing  through  Paris,  and  who 
was  stopping  with  Madame  Bashkirtseff  at  her  hotel  in  the 
Rue  Ampere. 

I  found  there  a  very  sympathetic  company  of  middle-aged 
ladies  and  young  girls,  all  speaking  French  perfectly,  with 
that  slight  accent  which  gives  to  our  language,  when  spoken 
by  Russians,  an  indescribable  softness. 

In  this  charming  circle,  with  its  pleasant  surroundings,  I 
received  a  cordial  welcome.  But  scarcely  was  I  seated  near 
the  "  samovar,"  a  cup  of  tea  in  my  hand,  when  my  atten- 
tion was  arrested  by  a  large  portrait  of  one  of  the  young 
ladies  present — a  perfect  likeness,  freely  and  boldly  treated, 
with  all  the  fougue  of  a  master's  brush.  "  It  is  my  daughter 
Marie,"  said  Madame  Bashkirtseff  to  me,  "who  painted 
this  portrait  of  her  cousin." 

I  began  by  saying  something  complimentary.  I  could  not 
go  on.  Another  canvas,  and  another,  and  still  another, 
attracted  me,  revealing  to  me  an  exceptional  artist.  I  was 
charmed  by  one  picture  after  the  other.  The  drawing-room 
walls  were  covered  with  them,  and  at  each  one  of  my  ex- 
clamations of  delighted  surprise,  Madame  Bashkirtseff  re- 
peated to  me,  with  a  tone  in  her  voice  of  tenderness,  rather 
than  of  pride,  "It  is  by  my  daughter  Marie  " — or,  "It  is  my 
daughter's." 

*  Printed  in  the  catalogue  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff  s  paintings  exhibited 
in  Paris  in  1885.  shortly  after  her  death. 

431 


43 2  APPENDIX. 

At  this  moment  Mile.  Bashkirtseff  appeared.  I  saw  her 
but  once.  I  saw  her  only  for  an  hour.  I  shall  never  for- 
get her.  Twenty-three  years  old,  but  she  appeared  much 
younger.  Rather  short,  but  with  a  perfect  figure,  an  oval 
face  exquisitely  modeled,  golden  hair,  dark  eyes  kindling 
with  intelligence — eyes  consumed  by  the  desire  to  see  and 
to  know  everything — a  firm  mouth,  tender  and  thoughtful, 
nostrils  quivering  like  those  of  a  wild  horse  of  the  Ukraine. 

At  the  first  glance  Mile.  Bashkirtseff  gave  me  the  rare 
impression  of  being  possessed  of  strength  in  gentleness, 
dignity  in  grace.  Everything  in  this  adorable  young  girl 
betrayed  a  superior  mind.  Beneath  her  womanly  charms, 
she  had  a  truly  masculine  will  of  iron,  and  one  was  reminded 
of  the  gift  of  Ulysses  to  the  young  Achilles — a  sword  hidden 
within  the  garments  of  a  woman. 

She  replied  to  my  congratulations  in  a  frank  and  well- 
modulated  voice — without  false  modesty  acknowledging  her 
high  ambitions,  and — poor  child  !  already  with  the  finger  of 
death  upon  her — her  impatience  for  fame. 

In  order  to  see  her  other  works  we  all  went  upstairs  to 
her  studio.  There  was  this  extraordinary  young  girl  en- 
tirely "in  her  element." 

The  large  hall  was  divided  into  two  rooms.  The  studio 
proper,  where  the  light  streamed  through  the  large  sash,  and 
a  darker  corner  heaped  up  with  papers  and  books.  In  the 
one  she  worked,  in  the  other  she  read. 

By  instinct  I  went  straight  to  the  chef-d'&uvre — to 
that  "Meeting"  which  at  the  last  Salon  had  engrossed  so 
much  attention.  A  group  of  little  Parisian  street  boys, 
talking  seriously  together,  undoubtedly  planning  some  mis- 
chief, before  a  wooden  fence  at  the  corner  of  a  street.  It 
is  a  chef-d'oeuvre  I  maintain.  The  faces  and  the  attitudes 
of  the  children  are  strikingly  real.  The  glimpse  of  meager 
landscape  expresses  the  sadness  of  the  poorer  neighbor- 
hoods. 


APPENDIX.  433 

At  the  Exhibition,  before  this  charming  picture,  the  pub- 
lic had  with  a  unanimous  voice  bestowed  the  medal  on 
Mile.  Bashkirtseff,  who  had  been  already  "  mentioned  "  the 
year  before.  Why  was  this  verdict  not  confirmed  by  the 
jury?  Because  the  artist  was  a  foreigner?  Who  knows? 
Perhaps  because  of  her  wealth  ?  This  injustice  made  her 
suffer,  and  she  endeavored — the  noble  child  ! — to  avenge 
herself  by  redoubling  her  efforts. 

In  one  hour  I  saw  there  twenty  canvases  commenced  ;  a 
hundred  designs — drawings,  painted  studies,  the  cast  of  a 
statue,  portraits  which  suggested  to  me  the  name  of  Frans 
Hals,  scenes  made  from  life  in  the  open  streets ;  notably 
one  large  sketch  of  a  landscape — the  October  mist  on  the 
shore,  the  trees  half  stripped,  big  yellow  leaves  strewing  the 
ground.  In  a  word,  works  in  which  is  incessantly  sought, 
or  more  often  asserts  itself,  the  sentiment  of  the  sincerest 
and  most  original  art,  and  of  the  most  personal  talent. 

Notwithstanding  this,  a  lively  curiosity  impelled  me  to 
the  dark  corner  of  the  studio,  where  I  saw  numerous  vol- 
umes on  shelves,  and  scattered  over  a  work-table.  I  went 
closer  and  looked  at  the  titles.  They  were  the  great  works 
of  the  greatest  intellects.  They  were  all  there  in  their  own 
languages — French,  Italian,  English,  and  German  ;  Latin 
also,  and  even  Greek,  and  they  were  not  "  library  books," 
either,  as  the  Philistines  call  them,  "  show  books,"  but  well- 
thumbed  volumes,  read,  re-read,  and  pored  over.  A  copy 
of  Plato,  open  at  a  sublime  passage,  was  on  the  desk. 

Before  my  visible  astonishment  Mile.  Bashkirtseff  low- 
ered her  eyes,  as  if  confused  at  the  fear  that  I  might  think 
her  a  "blue  stocking,"  while  her  mother  proudly  kept  on 
telling  me  of  her  daughter's  encyclopedic  learning,  and 
pointed  out  to  me  manuscripts  black  with  notes,  and  the 
open  piano  at  which  her  beautiful  hands  interpreted  all 
kinds  of  music. 

Evidently  annoyed  by  the  expression  of  maternal  pride, 


434  APPENDIX. 

the  young  girl  laughingly  interrupted  the  conversation.  It 
was  time  for  me  to  leave,  and  moreover  for  a  moment  I 
experienced  a  vague  apprehension,  a  sort  of  alarm — I  can 
scarcely  call  it  a  presentiment. 

Before  that  pale  and  ardent  young  girl  I  thought  of  some 
extraordinary  hot-house  plant,  beautiful  and  fragrant  beyond 
words,  and.  in  my  heart  of  hearts  a  sweet  voice  murmured, 
"  It  is  too  much  !  " 

Alas  !  it  was  indeed  too  much.  A  few  months  after  my 
one  visit  to  the  Rue  Ampere  I  received  the  sinister  notice 
bordered  with  black,  informing  me  that  Mile.  Bashkirtseff 
was  no  more.  She  had  died  at  twenty-three  years  of  age, 
having  taken  a  cold  while  making  a  sketch  in  the  open 
air.  Once  again  I  visited  the  now  desolate  house.  The 
stricken  mother,  a  prey  to  a  devouring  and  arid  grief,  unable 
to  shed  tears,  showed  me,  for  the  second  time,  in  their  old 
places,  the  pictures  and  the  books.  She  spoke  to  me  for  a 
long  time  of  her  poor  dead  child,  revealing  the  tenderness 
of  her  heart,  which  her  intellect  had  not  extinguished.  She 
led  me,  convulsed  by  sobs,  even  to  the  bed-chamber,  before 
the  little  iron  bedstead,  the  bed  of  a  soldier,  upon  which  the 
heroic  child  had  fallen  asleep  forever.  .  .  . 

But  why  try  to  influence  the  public  ?  In  the  presence  of 
the  works  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  before  that  harvest  of  hopes 
wilted  by  the  breath  of  death,  every  one  would  surely  expe- 
rience, with  an  emotion  deep  as  my  own,  the  same  profound 
melancholy  as  would  be  inspired  by  edifices  crumbling  before 
their  completion,  or  new  ruins  scarcely  risen  from  the  ground, 
which  flowers  and  ivy  have  not  yet  covered.  .  .  . 


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